#not that that matters because ill never be able to afford a new phone anyway. with my whopping $12/mo income

[babyloniastreasure]

damn dude this really be the year of jask losing access to their game accounts huh

[zeldaelmo]

This is my contribution for the @behind-the-fic MFC contest! It's an old story (the first chapter, actually, but I figured it would work as a one-shot as well). I am working on something else, but I’m slow and the new story is very much out of my comfort zone, so who knows if I’m able to finish it to my satisfaction until 01.08.

I'm not fond of the idea of competition when it comes to my creative hobbies, so I don't want to win anything. I just like to be part of it because I was too shy to do the podcast as a non-native speaker.

But enough of me, you are here to get sad. 😉

tw: Link is an orphan in this one and the loss of his parents is mentioned as a backstory. Nothing horrible, but I want you to be aware.

Well. And warning for horrible proposals. 😆

Oh, and this story was inspired by a scene of @spacebeyonce Halloween fic ‘draw me like a magnet (to the sea)’ !

A fool such as I 

He knew he was a fool when his eyes scanned the passing sidewalk for a woman with blonde hair from the passenger's seat of Pipit’s car. 

He knew he was a fool when they entered the charity gala, and he couldn’t stop himself from looking for a pair of blue eyes. 

He knew he was a fool when a bell-like laugh made him turn around to find out if it was her.

It was not. 

It was never her. 

“Link,” Pipit nudged him in the side, rolling his eyes at him, “you are doing it again. Get yourself something to drink and enjoy the evening, for Hylia’s sake! I didn’t drag you here to look for your imaginary girlfriend!” 

Sighing in defeat, Link grabbed a glass from the tray of one of the waiters, not caring at all what fancy drink he might have gotten himself. Old habits die hard – the point wasn’t that Link didn’t know Pipit was right. It was just... he sipped his drink to distract himself and the bitter-sweet taste of the bright orange aperitif rolled on his tongue. 

This wasn’t the first time they'd had this conversation and if Link was honest with himself, it wouldn’t be the last, either. He knew that looking for her was like looking for a needle in a haystack. His heart, however, knew not. Every time he convinced himself to give up, every time he tried to move on, his pulse thrummed against that faded scar on his palm, and he did it again. 

Like a fool. 

He had been eight when he first met her. 

It had been his mother’s last summer alive. She had been suffering from a mysterious lung disease the doctors couldn’t explain and couldn’t heal. They had sent the whole family to Skyloft, a famous climatic spa, in a last, desperate attempt to save her life. His parents hadn’t told him how severe his mother’s condition was, perhaps to spare him or perhaps to spare themselves from the truth. They just spoke about a long vacation with him, an opportunity for him to meet new friends and to stray over the little island on his own. He had loved the idea immediately. 

The girl arrived three days after him, her cheeks lacking color, her hair coiffed in two neat braids, and her proper cotton dress dancing around her knees. She was without her parents, just with her nanny – a stern-looking woman named Impa. The curious child that he was, he asked her in the following days why her parents didn’t accompany her. She shrugged and said, they were extremely busy and their jobs couldn’t afford a summer break and that was that. To him, it didn’t matter anyway, because sneaking her out was much easier this way – Impa never caught them. 

The physician had diagnosed her with general weakness and a susceptibility to illness and therefore she'd been sent to Skyloft. Link couldn’t detect anything ‘ill’ on her. Her face lit up every time she saw him in the eating room and after she winked at him over the huge bowl of pumpkin soup, he followed her in a safe distance to her room on his tiptoes. Impa, whose room was on the opposite, frightened him, so he didn’t dare to knock in case she would hear him. Instead, he bolted out of the back door and threw little pebbles on her window to get her attention. She opened the window with a wide smile, and he knew immediately that he had never seen anything so beautiful in his life. 

The days flew by after that. 

They met at the Goddess statue whenever she had free time between her treatments, and she sneaked out every evening to sit with him at the little pond. Her cheeks began to grow rosier from day to day and soon her blue eyes sparkled in the summer sun. 

She hadn’t been ill – she had been lonely. 

He taught her how to catch bugs and butterflies with a butterfly net, and she taught him their correct names. They read stories from the books of the little library, she more often than him because she was already a fluent reader while he was a beginner. Later in the summer, he even showed her how to swim and when she was too frustrated with her lack of stamina, they ended up in a giant water fight until their giggles made their faces and stomachs hurt. They raced over the island together, always hand in hand, stealing apples at the market and hiding sky stag beetles under seat cushions to watch the poor owner of the cushion being pinched from their hiding place. ‘Oh, will you look at these cuties!’, the adults exclaimed when they saw them, or, ‘Ah, to be young and in love again!’ and they both blushed in the warm summer sun. 

One afternoon, after they got a large piece of pumpkin pie from one of the farmers for helping to harvest the earlier pumpkins, she even kissed him. ‘You have pumpkin on your lips, Link,” she whispered, and then she pressed her lips to his and he was sure that he would burst into tiny pieces any moment out of sheer happiness. 

Like every summer, this summer too, had to end. She sneaked out of her room for the last time to meet him at their favorite place. They sat closer together as usual, both searching for comfort in the other, instinctively unwilling to separate from each other. Their hearts heavy, not many words were spoken, at least for eight-year-old standards. When the light of the sun turned slowly in a glowing shade of orange, she took his hand and turned his palm upward, stroking a line over it with her index finger. 

“Do you have your carving knife with you?” She spoke under her breath, “I want to take an oath.” He had and so he traced the stinging, bloody cut in his palm when he watched her part with Impa the following morning, swearing to himself that he would do anything he could to keep his part of the promise. 

They would see each other again, no matter what. 

And if that made him a fool, so be it.

“Earth at Link, earth at Link, we need you down here!” Pipit waved a piece of paper in front of his face. His friend had been busy filling out the symbolic check for their donation and was obviously expecting his input. Link blinked at him. “How much do we usually give? 3000 rupees?” he asked, trying to cover his slip into the daydream before his friend would shoot him another remark. Fortunately, Pipit was used to his aversion to numbers in general and didn’t grow suspicious. Pipit was the book-keeper and planner of their little security firm, while Link stuck to the operating tasks like installing an alarm device or overlooking a festivity in addition to the regular stuff of another rich family. His job description was a mixture between bodyguard and engineer, but usually, he liked to be on the road and working with Pipit was a huge pro as well. 

His friend nodded in agreement to his question and tapped the pen at his lips. “Well, write 3500. I’ll cover the rest.” 

Pipit blew a whistle. “What’s up, Link? Feeling generous tonight?” 

“It’s for an orphanage this year, Pipit,” he sighed. “There are too many kids who don’t have the same luck I had back then.” 

And that was true. Life didn’t give him much opportunity to think of his promise at first. His mother died only weeks after their return from Skyloft and his father followed her half a year later. A broken heart, the doctor said with thin lips when he squeezed his shoulder. He ended up in an orphanage for a few months but was lucky enough to find a family who was willing to adopt him. It was very unusual that a child of his age found a family at all. His adoptive parents said that they loved his messy hair and his honest smile from the very first second, and no matter how ridiculous that sounded to him, he was immensely thankful. Of course, it took some time to grow to love each other, but they managed somehow, and he didn’t feel so lost anymore – at least regarding his family. 

A year after he had left Skyloft, his life had changed dramatically, but he hadn’t forgotten his friend at all. Dreaming of her smile warmed him inside when the grief shook him to the core and thinking of her hand in his, anchored him when he was on the verge of drifting off. His new family knew nothing about her and although they shared a robust trust after a while, he was hesitant to share this treasured piece of his old life with them. 

Instead, he secretly started to look for her whenever they were in new places. Stood on staircases to get a better look over a crowd. Glanced at all the other tables when they were eating in a restaurant. Stayed near the door of a bus to observe if she might be one of the people who hopped on or off the vehicle. 

She was never among them. 

As a teenager, he gathered his courage and made a serious attempt to find her. He had little to start - they hadn’t thought of exchanging addresses or even last names. The horizon of eight-year-old children only extends so far. So, the administration of the health resort in Skyloft was his first shot. The files of the patients were only stored for five years, and they wouldn’t give him further information anyway unless he was related to her. He scrolled through the homepage of the staff next and contacted the few faces he recognized, stumbling through his lines on the phone. Nobody remembered a blonde girl with her name.

The last hint to her was Impa. He tried to find her instead, hoping an adult would leave more traces behind than a girl would, but the internet was dead silent about a nanny named Impa. It was hopeless. He was stuck looking for her everywhere he went.

Pipit coughed in his fist beside him and nodded in the direction of a brunette a few steps in front of them, hissing, “Babe alert!” 

“You are married, Pipit.” Link rolled his eyes at his friend. “Karane won’t be lucky over the fact that you are pining after other women.” 

“I’m talking about you, you moron. Or are you still dating Peatrice?” 

Link groaned and waved his hands. “Don’t get me started on that girl. She was so clingy, horrible.” 

He had tried to like her, really. She had begged him for a date, and he had given in. They had done all this dating stuff, watching films in the cinema, dining in a restaurant, even holding hands on a walk in the park. It had always been the same, after two hours more or less, he hadn’t been able to stand her anymore. The mindless chit chat, the exaggerated admiration for him, the false lashes, everything about her had put him on edge. 

Like a clockwork, his scar had begun to itch, and he had fled from her presence. 

“She wasn’t her.” Pipit narrowed his eyes at him. “That’s why. Because you are still chasing rainbows. Link, man up and move on!” 

“She was clin-” Link stopped. 

Looked again. 

Took a few steps forward. 

“Link?” He heard Pipit asking somewhere behind him, but he was already on his way. 

Could it be? His pace quickened when the people in front of him revealed a glimpse of blonde hair once again. The beat of his heart drummed through his veins, all the way down to his fingertips and his toes, too loud, too fast, and he tried assertively to push it back into his rib cage. 

He had been wrong before. 

He was most likely wrong again, the people and the yards between them made it difficult to be sure. Her calf-length evening dress was pink, yes, but who knew if it was still her favorite color? She had been eight. 

When she turned and his desperate eyes slid over the curve of her nose, her lashes, her powdered cheeks, a stubborn thing called hope expended in this chest. The bright, powerful hope like the sun after a summer storm, not the simmering, obstinately hope like a smoldering fire which had accompanied him for so long now. 

She was talking to someone, an elegant gentleman with long white hair, and her face lit up just in time when he was near enough to confirm that her eyes were blue. And then she smiled, a polite, practiced smile only, not even reaching her eyes, but it was proof enough to let his heart skip for far too long as it should be medically explainable. 

He had found her. 

Hylia above, after all these years, he had truly, finally found her! Tiny, shaky breaths left him, in and out, which did nothing to calm his nerves, and he took her in again, just to be sure. She looked different, of course, but her eyes had still the slightest trace of sadness that they had when he had seen her for the first time. Her features had grown out of the roundness of a child and her cheeks were rouged to hide the lack of color again. 

It had to be her – his heart beat nothing but her name through his veins. He had nearly caught up to her now and raising his trembling hand, he called, “Zelda!” Her head snapped up and his chest expanded nearly painfully from joy – it was her. It was her! But before their eyes could meet, a security guard in a black suit tapped her shoulder and led her away. 

No! 

Someone on the stage announced the charity entry of the princess, but he didn’t pay anything around him mind, nearly batted the unpleasant noise away with his hands. Setting his shoulders once more and squeezing through the people, he tried to follow the way she had left. He would not lose her again, now that he had finally found her. Never again! 

The stage and the backstage area were closed off with thick red ropes, a bodyguard with a stern face on each side of the stage, who already eyed him when he gave the rope a frustrated slap. He couldn’t look for her here. 

Fretfully, he turned around only to realize that he was trapped. Every single attendant of the charity Gala had gathered around the stage and it was pointless to try to get through these people, let alone find her again. Rolling his eyes, he braced himself for the next minutes of what would probably be a boring charity speech from the princess while he was dying to be on his way to find Zelda once again. 

He had never been particularly interested in the royal family – he wasn’t even sure if he would recognize one of them beside the King on the street. The King was the figurehead of the parliamentary monarchy and gained the main interest of the journalists and the people, while the rest of the royal family lived a relatively secluded life. Every now and then one of the members would participate in a charity event much like today. 

Sure, there was some kind of gossip press, too, but Link had always believed himself having more important things to do than following ‘reports’ of people he would never see in real life anyway. In the past, he had watched the New Year's speech of the King on television every year with his adoptive family, and he still did sometimes now he lived alone to keep the tradition up. Therefore, in all honesty, his curiosity about seeing the Princess wasn’t as great as it seemed to be the case with the people around him, but now that he was standing in the first row, he might as well take a look at her. 

The moment he turned around was the moment he realized he hadn’t been only a fool. 

He had been the greatest fool of all. 

Zelda. 

Zelda was the Princess of Hyrule. 

His heart dropped in his stomach, no to the floor. Suddenly, everything made sense. Impa hadn’t been a stern nanny; she had been a bodyguard. Her parents hadn’t been able to accompany her because they were the King and the Queen. Of course, she had been pale and lonely and well educated, because she had spent so much time on becoming a perfect princess as a child. Nobody remembered a blonde girl because they all only recalled the one summer the Princess was in Skyloft. He had never seen her on the bus because she had her own chauffeur. 

His knees nearly gave out under him, the edge of his vision blurring, when he tried to process the new information. Zelda was the Princess. That changed everything. Or did it change nothing at all? How was he supposed to think straight with that soundscape here?

He quashed the urge to block his ears from the horrible sappy violin music, his eyes returning to her instinctively, searching hers in vain. She was so sweet and beautiful and familiar; he couldn’t tear his gaze away. Oh, how he had missed her! 

So, what if she was the Princess? He wouldn’t let something like that get in their way. A promise was a promise was a promise. He just had to talk to her somehow when she left the stage – then they would pick up their friendship. Perhaps, if they still clicked like all these years ago, he even dared to hope for more. 

The piece of music the fiddlers were playing reached an even more sappy height and a guy with an odd, red pompadour he hadn’t noticed before stepped up to Zelda. He nestled with something in his pocket before he dropped down to one knee. Link’s eyes widened in horror, his body frozen in place. No… No, stop it! Not now, when he had finally found her! An icy fist gripped his heart and refused to let go. This had to be a cruel joke of destiny. 

One long, wonderful moment she said nothing, and he dared to hope that – yes, what? That she looked over, realized her undying love for him, so they could ride into the sunset on his non-existing horse? 

He fled when she nodded and the idiot raised again, not hesitating to kiss her. The people in front of him barely parted, and he stumbled, tripped until he found himself breaking down on the grated steps of the emergency exit. The cold of the autumn evening crawled under his skin. Or maybe it was the cold sting of realization. If he had found her ten minutes earlier, a week earlier, a year earlier, he might have stood a chance. Now, every moment he had looked for her had been in vain, her fiancé didn’t look at all like the type who would tolerate a rival, even if they would just be friends. 

What a fool he had been! 

He pressed his palms to his eyes, casting the world out. Who was he kidding, she was the Princess. Princesses didn’t stick with orphaned country-boys running a little two-person-operation, which made barely enough to donate a little sum every year. Princesses married rich company heirs, fancy musicians, or whatever this guy was. 

He wasn’t sure how long he sat with his face buried in his hands, hot tears dwelling at the corner of his eyes, unwilling to shed, when he heard the metallic click of the door. It could have been minutes. Or hours – and now Pipit had finally found him. It was time to move on anyway for him. 

A delicate hand stroked his back once, twice, before it withdrew. 

“A break-up?” A soft voice asked and when he raised his head, the tears finally fell. 

Rainbows. 

He had been chasing rainbows – she didn’t even recognize him when he was directly in front of her. 

It took him two attempts to get the words through the stinging lump in his throat. “Kind of,” he finally choked out, torturing himself by looking at her face from so close. 

She smiled that polite, meaningless smile, saying, “You’ll find someone else, eventually.” 

“I guess I have to,” he whispered and tore his gaze away, his heart shattering into a million pieces. The silence hung between them like the moon between the stars, and he waited and hoped and hated himself more for it with every passing second. 

Finally, she sighed and rubbed her arms. “I’m sure it’s a beautiful night somewhere, for someone.” 

He didn’t dare to look in her eyes again when he unwound his white-blue shawl and placed it on her shoulders. Denied himself to let his fingertips linger. To enclose her in his arms to shield her from the cold. From the world that forced her to paint her pale cheeks with rouge.

“Thank you,” she breathed, quiet, earnest. 

He looked at the moon again, taking his time to breathe in and breathe out, failing to prepare himself for a goodbye he had dreamed of as a beginning. A goodbye, he had never meant to say. 

“Congratulations on your engagement.” 

She looked at the rock on her finger, fidgeting the underside of the ring with her thumb. “Ah, yes, that. Thank you.” 

Despite himself, he took her hands in his and pressed a kiss on her knuckles, his fingers brushing her scar and hers brushing his for a terrible, perfect moment before he left. 

“Goodnight, Zelda.” His voice was as quiet as his heart was loud.

The emergency door fell shut after him with a heavy thud and the crowd of the gala swallowed him without hesitation.

She really should look happier, but it wasn’t his concern anymore. 

Perhaps it never had been. 

Psss... if you are like me and can’t stand a sad ending, check out the rest of the story here.

[fortheloveoffanfic]

Family Matters More

Keanu Reeves x reader. Requested. (A/n- So, because I’m terrible at staying organized, I have all of my requests, but not who they were requested by, so, when I write and post and you aren’t tagged even if you didn’t request on anon, I am very, very sorry, it’s no one’s fault but my own.)

Masterlist

Warnings- Pregnancy, Angst (it’s fine at the end though.)

Dropping the phone to the dark veined, marble kitchen counter, Y/n sighed heavily, raking her nails through her hair. Tears prickled at her eyes, making them glassy and ready to overflow. It had been coming, her entire family knew it, but Y/n still couldn’t believe the news she’d just heard from her mother; her uncle, who she’d grown up extremely close to, had died, from lung cancer. He’d been suffering for almost two years, aggressive chemo had only worked the first time, but when another cluster of tumors had shown up in a follow up PET scan, nothing had worked and her family’s only option had been to make his last days comfortable. Unfortunately, his ‘last days’ had turned out to be thirteen grueling months. 

Uncle Kenny had wilted away like flowers at the beginning of winter, growing duller as the days dragged on. The last time Y/n had seen him was months ago, she’d wanted to visit him at the hospice, but collectively, her parents and husband had urged her to keep their interactions restricted to over the phone, not wanting to stress her out too much. It had frustrated her at first, Uncle Kenny was her favorite uncle, always able to put a smile on her face when she was a kid and had taught her so much about the great outdoors while her parents were too busy climbing the corporate ladder to do it themselves. But though it was hard, eventually, Y/n had relented, but only after her uncle had personally requested that she stay away. That had come after she’d told him that she and Keanu were expecting. He loved her, and his unborn grand niece, which was why he couldn't risk something happening to Y/n or the baby because of added stress.

Hanging her head in her hands, Y/n tried to quell the stinging in her eyes, but her efforts were fruitless and before long, hot tears were falling freely, punctuated by soft sobs racking her body. It wasn’t supposed to hurt that much, Y/n knew that it was inevitable, and it should have comforted her that he’d gone in his sleep, but really, it didn’t. If only he hadn’t been such an avid smoker, then maybe he’d still be there, hopefully to teach her daughter the things he’d taught Y/n when she was a kid.

“So, babe I-” Keanu cut himself off as he entered the kitchen. Worry immediately swelling in his chest at the sight of his wife in tears, “Hey,” he cooed, immediately going over to where she sat at the counter, pulling her flush against his chest and smoothing his hands over her hair, “Shh,” he kissed the top of her head, “What’s wrong baby?”

It took a while, Y/n was blubbering so intense that she couldn’t speak, but after about fifteen minutes spent in Keanu’s comforting embrace, she settled enough to form words, “He’s gone Ke,” she sobbed, burrowing into his chest, “Uncle Kenny’s gone.”

Right there, Keanu’s heart broke for her. Of course, everyone knew that the moment was coming, but still his wife had lost someone dear to her, and in such a painful way. All he wanted was to take the hurt away, she was supposed to be enjoying the path to motherhood, not breaking down because she’d lost a loved one. “I’m sorry baby,” Keanu kissed the top of Y/n’s head again. “Come on,” he eventually urged her off of the barstool, hugging her close as he led them to the living room, cuddling her as they sank onto the sofa. “Can I get you anything? Water or tea?” Even if he couldn’t fix her heartbreak, Keanu could still take care of her, and their baby.

“No,” she shook her head, staring forward blankly, her fingers absently tracing circles on her growing bump, too upset to notice the fluttering kicks against her stomach. Why couldn’t he have just stuck around for three more months? If not to see her grow up, just to meet her, at least once. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Keanu probed, wishing that he could offer more than just a listening ear and a hug.

Y/n shook her head again, “Not really,” her words were soft and broken, “Can we just sit here for a bit?” 

“Of course sweetheart.”

Funerals were always emotionally draining, but it was especially so when you were six months pregnant and your emotions were working in overtime. Huffing as she entered their bedroom, Y/n winced as she stationed a weary hand at her aching back. The lengthy service had been held at a church in the city, Uncle Kenny just had to be a devout Catholic in his final days, and the old, worn, wooden pews hadn’t been very kind. Worse yet, the kitten heels she’d opted to wear didn’t provide much support when she’d had to spend nearly two hours on her feet, standing at the entrance with her parents as they thanked everyone as they trickled out of the cathedral. 

With a pained groan, half from her back, half from the headache she’d acquired at some point throughout the day, Y/n slowly sank into the armchair, intent on starting to remove her shoes. Just as Y/n had lifted one swollen ankle onto her other knee, Keanu came into the bedroom, tugging at the neck of his black tie, his longish dark strands brushing his shoulders, the salt in his beard signalling that he hadn’t gone for a trim in a while. “Let me do that,” he offered, coming to kneel in front of her. 

“No,” Y/n flinched away, “I’ll do it.” She was upset with him, though, she hadn’t let him know yet. Y/n had spent the last week or so in deep, deep thought; her uncle had been a smoker, which had led to lung cancer and, ultimately, death. Keanu was a smoker too, and Y/n couldn’t help but worry that she’d lose him like that or to some other type of ill health. 

Furrowing his brows, Keanu tilted his head to the side. Y/n had been cold with him all day, holding his hand, but only reluctantly so, and barely saying a word to him on the drive back to their house. He understood that she was hurting, but he didn’t want her to shut him out because of it. “What’s wrong?”

“We just came back from a funeral, what do you think’s wrong?” Y/n grumbled, struggling to take her shoes off, eventually submitting to his help. “Excuse me,” she pushed off the arm chair, shrugging off the black blazer that she’d worn over her smock dress, letting her hair down afterwards. 

“Y/n,” Keanu sighed her name quietly, “Please, just talk to me. I know this is hard for you but-”

“I want you to stop smoking,” the admission just tumbled out of her mouth, with barely any warning. She’d had it; watching her uncle wither away was hard enough, Y/n was sure that she couldn’t survive watching Keanu being broken down like that. And worse yet, raise their child on her own, what was she supposed to tell their daughter? That her father puffed his life away even though he knew she’d need him?

“What?” Keanu slipped his hands into the pockets of his black slacks, taken aback by her harsh request.

“I want you to stop smoking,” Y/n repeated firmly, “I don’t want to lose you like that. And even if its not cancer, there’s a whole bunch of other stuff that it could cause. I couldn’t stand it if something happened to you, you know that.”

Keanu chuckled humorlessly, hoping to lighten the moment. Y/n had never had a problem with his nasty vice before, they’d been together for years, and now, out of the blue she wanted him to stop? “Honey,” he chuckled again, “Don’t be ridiculous.” In retrospect, accusing his pregnant wife of being ridiculous may not have been his best move.

“Ridiculous?” Y/n repeated incredulously, “You think I’m being ridiculous for wanting you to be healthy? Well maybe I’m being ridiculous for having a baby with a man who’s not taking care of himself, who probably doesn’t even care if he lives long enough to walk his daughter down the aisle one day.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” He scoffed, already exasperated, “I’m fine Y/n, healthy and right here.” He loved his wife, but like almost every other husband in the world Keanu didn’t want to be wrong. Besides, he was stuck in his ways; old habits die hard. And above all, he was scared, Keanu didn’t want to think about missing one of the most important days of his daughter’s life, no father did. Unfortunately though, instead of his inner turmoil encouraging him to be sympathetic to Y/n's cause, it just fanned Keanu’s flame, rousing the worst reaction, “And you know what? If having a baby with me is so fucking ridiculous, maybe we shouldn’t have kept it! Hell, I’m older than you anyway, maybe I’ll just die, have you thought of that?” 

Y/n’s lips quivered, frightened at his tone and at a complete loss for words. How could he say those things? “I…..” Nothing would come, and suddenly, Y/n wanted to be far away from Keanu. That wasn’t the gentle, sweet man she married. Her husband was loving and sensitive, he was overjoyed when they’d found out that they were having a baby and ordinarily would have never said something so cruel. Y/n didn’t know what had prompted the seemingly overnight change, but she did know that if Keanu was going to be like that, she didn’t want to be in the same house with him.

Seeing the tears in her eyes and the slight shake in her form, Keanu swore under his breath, “Fuck.” He couldn’t believe that he’d let fear and anger get the better of him like that. He stood; wooden and glued to the floor as Y/n suddenly started moving around in as much of a haste as her condition would afford her, grabbing a large bag from their closet and packing some of her stuff into it, “I’m- shit,” he mumbled when she wouldn’t stop to hear him, “Y/n,” he pleaded, reached out to grab her arm, huffing in defeat when she pulled away, “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Yeah, well you did.” Zipping the top up, Y/n swung her bag over her shoulders, too enraged to take the time to put her shoes back on, so instead shoving her tired feet into the nearest pair of flip flops, a fluffy set that she usually wore after getting into her pajamas. Without another word, she was leaving the bedroom, headed towards the stairs.

“Where are you going?” Keanu followed Y/n down the steps, and able to move a little faster than her, he easily blocked her way at the bottom.

Her cheeks were tear stained and Y/n’s eyes were already red, one hand gripped the strap of the bag tightly while the other was placed protectively over her bump. Keanu hated seeing her cry, yet, that night, he’d been the one bringing tears to her eyes. “Home,” was all she offered, trying to squeeze through the space between his larger body and the railing.

“You are home,” he countered, folding his arms.

“I meant home, to my parents,” she clarified, not even sure why she’d bothered to tell him. At the side door to the garage, Y/n grabbed her car keys off the little brass hook, singling out the remote for her car alarm and then hitting the button at the top to unlock it.

“At least let me drive you,” he didn’t want Y/n to leave like that, distraught and past dark. Even in the security of her car, anything could happen, and above all, her safety came first, triumphing any amount of anger over their spat.

“No,” Y/n was getting into her car, clumsily sliding into the driver’s seat, “I just…...I don’t want to be around you right now, okay?” 

The harshness in her tone coupled with her actual words stung like a snake bite to the chest, though Keanu was well aware that he’d said much worse not too long ago. He should have been reasonable instead of acting like an insensitive jerk. He should have heard her out and talked things through with Y/n instead of spewing battery acid.

The garage door reeled open and Y/n started backing her car out, not paying Keanu any mind as he called after her. Desperately, he followed on his feet for as far as he could, though, as usual, he was reminded that his knees weren't what they used to be and before long, Y/n's car was far beyond his reach, his wife and child, who he was  absolutely terrified to lose, gone, and he'd had no clue when, or if, they'd ever be back.

Sleep had been hard to come by that night, so hard that it never really came. Keanu's mind was constantly bombarded with anxious thoughts of Y/n. She hadn't answered her phone when he called, probably two dozen times, and when he'd tried her parents place, they'd both rattled off cheap, continuous excuses; she wasn't there yet, she was sleeping or even the age old "she's busy." 

All night, he'd worried about her, even between his fruitless phone calls. Was she sleeping okay? Was she well? How was the baby? For a brief moment, at around two am, Keanu had all but actually made it to his car, still dressed from the funeral, ready to head to his in-laws and mend things with his love, but in the end, fear and reason had stopped him. Y/n needed time to cool off, especially after what he'd said, a mere few hours definitely weren't going to cut it.

And then, slumping into one of the sitting room's sofas, Keanu finally took a minute to think about exactly what had gone down. Her plea had been reasonable; if it had been the other way around, he'd have wanted her to stop a lifetime ago, expect her to do anything that would prolong their time together. But there he'd stood, trying to make Y/n the fool for asking the same of him. 

Maybe I'll just die. Those were his words.

Keanu had never been one to let himself be preoccupied with thoughts of his own death, it was frivolous after all, it wasn't like he could change it. One day, it was going to happen, one day, he was going to leave people behind. And it never bothered him, that was, until he met her. So innocently, not looking to fall in love, but just a month later, doing it anyway. Almost four years ago, Y/n had brought a new vibrancy to his life, and now, they were creating one together. And with every cell in his being, Keanu didn't want to miss a moment of it.

Quitting was hard, he'd tried before. But arguably, before, there wasn't so much at stake. Just like that, with reinvigorated energy, Keanu pushed off the couch, fishing a half empty pack of smokes from his pocket, tossing it to the kitchen counter, only to head to the little draw in the kitchen where he usually kept some more on hand. Even if it wasn't going to be easy, even if the stories he'd heard about withdrawal and the side effects of going cold turkey were terrifying, Keanu knew that he had to. For his wife, for his child. For himself. 

For the rest of the night, knowing full and well that sleeping with her spot vacant would be a daunting task, Keanu disregarded the need for rest, instead opting to sweep the house for any trace of a cigarette; getting rid of everything from stray smokes and glass ashtrays to expensive cigars. If he was going to do it, he was going to do it right. 

By dawn, everything indicating that a smoker resided at their cushy house in the hills had been tossed; dumped in the appropriate bin at the curb, and then, unable to hold out any longer, Keanu finally got in his car, started it up and backed out into the street, headed to bring his family home.

Her eyes burned, half from crying all night and half from just not sleeping at all. Though she'd tried, pillows tucked around her, Y/n still hadn't managed to catch a wink all night, and as the light of dawn split the darkness, she'd found herself queasy with homesickness. It wasn't like she hadn't ever spent a night away from her place with Keanu, but the feeling of being at odds with him like that, knowing she'd actively left so abruptly and so distraught, had made her literally sick. 

Needless to say, things had gone far awry from what Y/n had expected. Of course, he was allowed to be upset, she was asking him to give up something he'd been doing for more than twenty years, smoking, as terrible as it was, was ingrained in his routine. Habitual. And trying to take it away so sudden would be like ripping away someone's security blanket. So really, she had no intention of hurting him.

Yet still, he'd hurt her  

That morning, and the painful memory continued to rack her frame with soft sobs, eventually interrupted by her mother, features pinched with worry, knocking on her ajar door as she poked her head in, "Y/n," she probed tentatively, "Sweetheart, Keanu wants to know if you'd be okay with talking to him now. Please, he's worried about you."

"I don't wanna talk to him," Y/n shifted beneath the mass of covers, swiping away some tears from her reddened cheeks, "Just tell him to leave me alone." She knew, full and well, that she sounded like a melodramatic teenager going through a lover's spat with her high school boyfriend, but Y/n didn't care. 

"Dear," her mother sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of her nose, "I know you two had a fight last night, but he's your husband. Besides, he's already downstairs."

Struggling to turn towards the door and sit up, Y/n couldn't decide if she was infuriated or touched, "What?" Sniffing loudly, she reached for a tissue from the box at her bedside, "Why?"

"Because, he's worried and he loves you," when Y/n didn't look particularly moved, her mother, as adamant on having them resolve their issues as she was, continued, "And he know he's said some stupid things, but he doesn't want to keep things this way. Everyone makes mistakes Y/n. Please just talk to him, he's here and he's as much of a mess as you are. And we both know that all this stress isn't good for the baby, I'm sure she misses her daddy."

Hesitating for a moment, Y/n eventually nodded, absently caressing her bump as she finally permitted, "Okay, fine. Tell him I'll be right down."

Smiling faintly, Y/n's mother thought on it for a minute, before suggesting; "Even better; why don't I ask him up here? That way you two can shut the door and have some privacy."

"Yeah, okay," wiping her reddened nose with the crumpled tissue, trying not to cry again, "He can come up." Mouthing an okay, Y/n’s mother pushed the door back in, walking off without another word, and just as she did, Y/n shoved off the covers, scooting to the edge of the bed and slowly standing. Taking a minute to go over to the full length mirror, passing a brush from the top of the dresser through her bed head and then attempting to straighten her mismatched pajamas, she was just about to go over to the window, to see if Keanu's car was really parked out front, when her door creaked open, the sudden sound making her jump and gasp. 

"Hey," Keanu didn't hold her gaze for longer than a minute handful of seconds before letting his whiskey orbs fall to the hardwood floor, strands from his untamed mane curtaining his tired features. Cautiously, as if he were afraid of upsetting her, Keanu inched into Y/n's childhood bedroom. They both knew the room well, and she remembered the first time she'd brought him to it, the night he'd met her parents for the first time. They'd been skeptical at first, he was older, and Hollywood had given most of their men a bad rep, but by the end of dinner, her mother was smitten and her father…...well, he could tolerate him. They'd brought their desert up there and had it by the window, just before Y/n had showed him around. Their current situation felt far different; void of the warmth of new love replaced by the stifling fear that their marriage was hanging in the balance. 

"Hi," meekly, Y/n replied, swallowing thickly and not knowing how they should have continued. She didn't like how it felt; to be so flustered in his company. They were each other's safe places, refuge after a long, hard day, their first phone calls when something good happened and everything in between. Around Keanu, silence was comfortable and usually, breaking long stretches without words exchanged was easy. But that morning, she didn't have the slightest clue on what to say, on how to begin to bridge the gap that had grown overnight. 

Putting a fist to his lips, Keanu raised his head again, tentatively looking around first to the unmade bed and then to Y/n standing near the closed window as he cleared his throat, primarily to break the tense silence. "I'm sorry," just as she had the night before, Y/n flinched when Keanu reached for her, that time though, it was more out of hurt than anger. She could see that her actions had stung him by the pained look that crossed his face, but he'd done his own share  of damage the night before, and even if she could be talked into forgiving, Y/n wasn't just yet ready to forget. "What I said-"

"Was pretty damn fucked up," the break in her voice brought with it a new wave of quiet tears and Y/n could swear she felt her heart start breaking at his words replaying in her mind. Maybe we shouldn’t have kept it. Maybe I’ll just die. “You talked about aborting our child Keanu! What, were you just lying every time you said you wanted a family with me?”

“No, no, of course not,” scouring his brain for the right words, Keanu’s chest felt tight. He really had messed things up, with the best person in his life, and he wasn’t sure he could fix it. But he had to give it his best. He didn’t think he could stand to leave without his wife. “I just,” hitting his thigh with his fist and shaking his head, Y/n could see him fighting tears, “I got defensive, I don't want to think about not being there for the both of you, it’s scary.”

“Then talk to me about it, try to understand where I’m coming from when I ask you to try to quit,” Y/n’s arms fell to her sides in defeat, “Don’t…..” When she couldn’t finish, Keanu approached her again, and that time, she let him wrap her in his strong arms. It had just been one night, but she’d missed their comfort dearly, there was absolutely nothing that could compare to his embrace.

“I’m so, so sorry sweetheart,” his husky, pained voice was barely a whisper and he followed up his words with a chaste kiss on the crown of her head, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. It felt so good to have her tucked against his chest again, their heartbeats in sync. “I never, ever want to hurt you like this again,” Keanu rubbed her back soothingly, one hand toying with the ends of her freed tresses, “And I want to be with you, both of you, for as long as I can be. So I’m quitting, I’m done with that.”

With tear stained cheeks and glassy eyes, Y/n reared back slightly to meet his equally blurry gaze, “I’m sorry I picked a fight about that,” Y/n sighed quietly, and as much as she’d wanted him to quit smoking, she didn’t want to push him too hard, “And you know, if its too hard then-”

“No,” Keanu swallowed thickly, “It’s not. I don’t care about that, our family matters more to me, and you two are gonna be stuck with me for a very, very long time.”

Through her tears, a glimmer of a smile broke through, brightening her sorrow, and without warning Y/n’s arms around Keanu’s middle tightened and she laid her head on his chest, “Good,” she grinned softly, standing on her tiptoes to kiss him sweetly, “Cause we wouldn’t have it any other way.”

*****

Tagging- @harrisongslimited @magnificentclodpiebanana   @keandrews @greenmanalishi  @rdjloverxxx​  @danceoftwowolves​

[carryonmywaywardcaptain]

Six Feet Apart

CarryOnCap’s Masterlist

Summary: Dean is fed up with a lot of things about the Coronavirus and safety guidelines, but he’s got a compelling reason to follow them. Sometimes it’s funny what a little faith can do.

Warnings: Obviously everything surrounding the ‘Rona, mentions of terminal illness, some angst, some feels but a positive ending

A/N: @rileynicole1967​ requested a Dean x reader fic based on “Six Feet Apart” by Alec Benjamin. This is definitely not what you asked for because it took a weird turn, BUT it was very therapeutic for me to write and I still managed to give it the ending you asked for. So I appreciate the request more than you know :) 

[IF you happen to be curious about the inspiration behind this:   I’ve been in a rough place for quite some time-- hence my Tumblr absence. Not that the self-disclosure is really needed, but my grandma is in really bad shape with her cancer and I’ve been trying to make things work with a guy who very well could have been “The One” under non-’Rona circumstances. I’ve been caught in a terrible, anxiety-inducing middle between obviously wanting to date and spend time with a guy who is out in the world everyday, but only being able to do so much without risking my grandma’s health. Aaand kind of mine too. Stupid faulty meatsuit haha. Anyway. Life has been so stinking heavy but this helped a little.]

Keys. 

Mask. 

Wallet. 

Phone.

It was routine now. Dean had gone through the process so many times that his body practically went on autopilot as he grabbed the items on his way out of the motel room he’d checked into late last night.

There were days he thought the guidelines were frustrating, inconvenient, and even a little pointless. He knew he’d probably get the virus at some point anyway and he’d made peace with that. Maybe he’d be able to fight it off just fine, maybe he wouldn’t. But the chances of that happening were like anything else in life. Even if the world had managed to come to an eerie halt, that didn’t mean it applied to people like him and Sam who still had work to do. 

Although he knew he had everything he needed, he checked his pockets again just to be sure. If it were up to him, truthfully he wouldn’t even bother with the mask or the “social distancing” crap. 

But it wasn’t just about him anymore. And he couldn’t afford to take any chances.

Oh, I miss you most at six feet apart when you’re

Right outside my window, but can’t ride inside my car

And it hurts to know just how lovely you are

And be too far away to hold, but close enough to break my heart

I miss your smile

Feels like miles

Six feet apart

Dean pulled into a worn concrete driveway in front of a modest white house. The front porch, which he’d become quite familiar with lately, contained two cast iron chairs and a matching table. He’d never been inside, couldn’t risk the possibility of bringing the virus into her home if he’d unknowingly come into contact with it. While he was constantly on the road chasing cases, she only left the house for treatments, appointments, and intermittent trips to the porch when he could make it back to visit.

He sighed heavily, putting the car in park before turning to glare at the offending bit of fabric on the leather seat beside him. He hated wearing that stupid mask. Hated the way the material trapped each breath, circulating the warm air right back to his face. He hated how stuffy and suffocating it felt. Sometimes it even made him feel a little claustrophobic.

But she’d sewn it herself and given it to him so he could stop using t-shirts, bandanas, and any other piece of clothing he could find in his trunk as a makeshift mask each time he came to see her. Sometimes he struggled to keep in mind what a thoughtful gesture it had been. That having to wear it might be annoying, but it really wasn’t a big deal in the grand scheme of things. And if a stupid piece of fabric had even a small chance of keeping them safe, then he could deal with it for a few hours, couldn’t he? 

A few hours, he thought sourly. Nowadays they were lucky if they could even get that much time together. But he’d take what he could get.

Reluctantly, he grabbed the mask and looped the elastic bands around each ear. After fussing with the edges, trying in vain to make it fit comfortably, he let his head fall back against the seat in frustration. As he examined the space above him, sinking deeper into his ruminating thoughts, he began to wonder how much longer he could keep this up and if all of this was really worth it.

So far, so far, but so close

Like a star out in the cosmos

Can’t touch the beauty I see

That’s how it feels at six feet

It had been a while since the last time he’d been able to visit her. When the front door opened and two women emerged, he climbed out of the car and walked straight to his usual spot on the overgrown lawn. As he got closer and appraised her condition, he tried to conceal his reaction.

She looked rough. Despite the fuzzy robe she wore, he could tell how feeble her figure was beneath. Her movements were slow and deliberate, making him suspect she may have fallen again recently. He clenched his jaw, recalling how she’d been too weak to pick herself up last time and had remained on the floor until someone came to check on her the next morning. 

With help from the other woman, who he assumed was a new caretaker, she settled into the cushions on one of the chairs. Her chest heaved and her eyes fell closed as she took a moment to recover from the exertion of her short walk. When her eyes finally fluttered open, they were a stark contrast against her sallow skin.  

“Long time, no see,” she teased, her voice a hoarse whisper.

Dean nodded. “How’re you feeling today?”

“Can’t complain.”

In a way, he knew she was lying. He had a feeling she was having a rough day, but she was never one to complain. He had quickly learned that no matter what was going on in her life, she was the kind of person who worried about everyone else and put their well-being before her own. He wondered what kind of update the doctor had given her this time, but he was too afraid to ask.

“It’s so good to see you.”

Her gentle admission shook him from his thoughts. The edges of her eyes crinkled and he could just imagine the smile she wore beneath her mask. 

Space and time are interwoven

Well, at least that’s what we’re told

When I was young, I was suspicious, but it’s true

Time sticks like glue

I feel so blue

Here missing you

So I think I’ll build a time machine and go back to a time

When we didn’t need to measure six feet on the ground

When I came around

That’s not allowed

I can’t go back now

He’d never really been the relationship type. He hadn’t been looking for anything when their paths had first crossed, but there was something about her that had captured his interest. The more they’d gotten to know one another, the more he learned just how much they had in common. 

It had made him feel uneasy at first-- how easy she was for him to talk to. She rarely pressed him on anything and she had a way of making him feel comfortable even with the hardest conversations. They’d shared their life stories; their favorite memories, biggest letdowns, family dramas, and everything in between. After all of the monsters they’d each faced in their lives...this one was the deadliest and ugliest he’d ever had to face. And of all the people in the world who didn’t deserve to go through something like this, she topped the list.

Okay, sure, no one really deserved a death sentence. But didn’t it always make it worse that bad things always seemed to happen to good people? 

Dean had beaten leviathans and reapers. He’d taken out loads of vampires, ghouls, and ghosts. He’d ganked more angel and demon douchebags than he could count. But when he had asked her to let him help-- when he’d mentioned what Cas could do or offered to work with Sam to find a spell that might heal her-- she politely declined. She had simply thanked him and explained that it wouldn’t be fair to everyone else fighting for their lives like she was. That her life was in no way more important than anyone else’s. She’d told Dean sometimes these things just happen and have a little faith, you never know.

Dean had of course tried to argue, but he couldn’t quite put into words just how special she was. That she didn’t deserve this and he’d give anything to change their circumstances. At one point he’d even considered tracking down a crossroads demon and making a deal to switch places with her, but he knew she wouldn’t have wanted that. 

No matter how many times he tried to bring it up or how much he wished he could fight this one for her, there was nothing he could do to fight the monster slowly killing her from the inside out.

So, I miss you most at six feet apart when you’re

Right outside my window, but can’t ride inside my car

And it hurts to know just how lovely you are

And be too far away to hold, but close enough to break my heart

I miss your smile

Feels like miles

Six feet apart

It seemed like there was never enough time. They’d talked all afternoon and neither one of them were ready to say goodbye but, when she suddenly shivered, he knew it was time for him to leave. It wasn’t cold outside by any means, but it took a lot more to keep her warm these days.

He couldn’t help but linger a little longer, admiring her from where he still sat in the grass. Sometimes just being in her presence helped ease a little of the hopelessness he always seemed to grapple with. It was starting to take a toll on him-- not knowing if things would ever get better or if the world would ever return to some sense of normalcy.

What he wanted more than anything was to walk right up on the porch and wrap his arms around her. It didn’t make sense how much he ached to just be near her. He’d never admit it out loud, but it was almost physically painful how much he wanted to reach out and touch her-- to hug her, kiss her, or even see her smile without their stupid masks.

But she was barely holding on and he knew her body was fighting every moment of the day just to keep her alive. 

He hated wearing his mask. He hated how he could be so close to her and still feel so far away. He hated not being able to hold her and he hated that there didn’t seem to be an end or a solution in sight for the state of the world at the moment. He hated that she was dying and there was nothing he could do about it. And he especially hated the fact that the universe had to have a pretty damn cruel sense of humor to let him meet someone like her in a time like this. Even though he was fed up with feeling like he was stuck in another one of Gabriel’s twisted, incessant pranks...the thought of walking away and not having her in his life at all was far worse. 

So he took it one day at a time. He knew there was a chance he might get the virus at some point and usually he was ready to accept whatever cards fate dealt him. Maybe he’d be able to fight it off, maybe he wouldn’t. But she wouldn’t be able to. And he knew if he slipped up, if he somehow managed to pass it along, that that would be the end for her.

He hated a lot of things lately and he wasn’t sure if they’d ever really go away. But there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that every single inconvenience and moment of frustration was worth it for him to be able to spend time with her-- even six feet apart.

***

Dean was staring up at the ceiling, unable to fall back asleep. The nightmares didn’t come as often anymore but, when they did...well, they were no walk in the park. He let out a sharp breath, squeezing his eyes shut as he pushed the images of her sunken face from his mind.

The movement had jostled her, and he hugged her closer when she began to stir. He placed a gentle kiss on top of her head and she hummed softly as she nestled further into his chest.

When they were in the thick of it, it had been so hard to see a way out. To believe they’d be okay or ever have a shot at actually being together. To believe there would be an end to the virus or that there was any chance she could get better. 

Sometimes those dark days, when all hope seemed lost, felt like nothing more than a distant nightmare. But Dean refused to let himself forget. Maybe it was morbid, but every moment with her felt a little bit sweeter when he reminded himself of how grim those days had been and of everything they’d had to overcome. When he remembered everything she’d had to endure.

It was honestly a miracle that he was lucky enough to hold her in his arms like this. Everyone had asked him on numerous occasions if he’d done something, but even he didn’t have an explanation. He really didn’t care whether it was faith or something supernatural or even just one of life’s unexplained mysteries-- all that mattered was that she was healthy and alive. 

So he kept the memories of those days close and promised himself he’d never take the time he had with her for granted. They had made it through one of the darkest times in either of their lives and he had no doubt they’d face more in the future. But, with her by his side, he had faith they’d find a way to make it through those days too.

So far, so far, but so close

Like a star out in the cosmos

Can’t touch the beauty I see

That’s how it all feels to me

So far, so far, but so close

Like a star out in the cosmos

Can’t touch the beauty I see

That’s how it feels at six feet

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[the-awkward-outlaw]

Bonjour ! How are you doing ? I've read you're depressed, I've been through it too, feel free to talk to me whenever you want ! Since you're my favourite writer, I've got an imagine request for you ! Imagine Leviticus Cornwall's young wife has been kidnapped by the gang. She's a classy british girl and she is very pretty, but she is not arrogant and is friendly with the gang. Arthur and her fall in love but Dutch want a ransom and doesn't want her to stay. You can choose the ending.Thank you :D

Awe thanks friend! My depression is luckily on the down low and I am in therapy to learn how to control it, but it’s awesome to hear that we support each other. If you need to talk, I’m here as well!

Sorry it took so long to do this one. Honestly this request could have turned into a multi-chapter fic! That being the case, it’s really long (only 20 pages lol). Anyways, I hope you enjoy!

(Author’s note: Arthur doesn’t have TB in this scenario) 

Word count: ~10,500

You look over at your husband across the breakfast table with disgust. Although it’s a rather rare occurrence for him to join you for your morning meal because his schedule is so full, you’d rather he never did. Of course, you’ve no say in any of this. You’re just his wife, his property. He’s made it clear more than once that he’s no interest in your feelings, your hopes and dreams. 

You’d grown up in London. Your father was and still is the owner of a prominent bank. When you were in your late teens, your father and mother decided to move to New York and start a new bank there. Your father saw the ocean of opportunity there. New York was a fast-growing city, and although it didn’t have the wealthy history of London, it had new sources of money that had yet to be tapped. Your father raved about the correctness people used when they called the area New England, for it was like it in many ways but so many of the people were “new money” and your father loved it. Within only a few years, your father’s new bank in New York took off so well he even built another one in Boston, which was where he decided to permanently locate you, your mother and younger brother. 

When you first arrived in America, you knew very little about the country and certainly nothing about the American West. The little you had learned about the country was mostly in regards to the Revolutionary War a little over a hundred years ago. How the Americans had basically won against the British with little more than varmint rifles and their unique strategies of outsmarting their rivals. You learned in school that thirty years ago America suffered a Civil War, something to do with slavery. You had no idea though that many of the states had wanted to become their own separate country. 

Your mother was aware that your knowledge of America was flimsy at best. Hers was the same way, so she encouraged you and your brother to go and learn about the history of America in order to appear knowledgeable about it despite being a foreigner. However, she wouldn’t let you study at Boston’s library. She insisted that, coming from a wealthy family, you should read from the University’s library and study with their tutors. Only common folk went to the public library, although you thought it would be a wonderful source to observe American culture firsthand. Per her wishes, you went to the University’s library with your brother, but you didn’t like it much. You felt that its books would have been no better than the library’s and the tutors were so stuck up and over-educated, it made you miserable. 

In London, you were constantly surrounded by the wealthier folk since they were the only ones your parents would let you be around as a child. When you moved to Boston though, you were old enough to disobey them and mix in with a different crowd. You found yourself enjoying the company of the middle class. They were not concerned with manners and etiquette. Many of them had a sense of humor you enjoyed and because they were not so caught up in their wealth, they had a sense of community the wealthier folk lacked. They cared about each other. That was something so unique to you that you absolutely loved. It made you openly disobey your mother and you went to learn about America in Boston’s library. They offered tutors as well, and they were friendlier and had a richer knowledge in basic history, not just the history in politics and the prestigious like the University’s tutors had. Some of the tutors had even been involved in some of the events you studied up on. One was a former doctor during the Civil War and he told you some awful yet intriguing stories about it. 

As you learned about America, you found yourself divulging into the American West. Of course you’d heard and learned a little about it as a child, the hot deserts with their cacti and the cowboys. However, as you learned about it now, you realized your previous knowledge had been minimal. You knew nothing of the true wildness of it. The outlaws, the sheriffs that were just as tainted as the criminals they sought. The tough ranchers who fought wars against wolves. The heartbreaking histories of the Natives that had lived and been treated like less than vermin by the settlers. The Mexicans who came and brought pieces of their own rich culture. It fascinated you. You’ve known nothing but civility and the West sounded like the opposite of it. Of course, you read a little about the wild gangs that flourished there and had no interest in experiencing them firsthand or even from a distance. 

Your husband wipes his mustache and beard with a napkin and stands up without looking at you. His servant Bradley comes forward, holding a book open for him to read. You know this book very well. It contains your husband’s daily schedules. You have one as well. You’re used to living by a tight schedule, having done it most of your life. Your husband studies it for a moment and then says something to Bradley. You don’t hear it, not that you care. Without a glance in your direction, your husband turns to leave when the butler, Mr. Blomsbury comes in. 

“Mr. Cornwall, the mayor of Saint Denis is on the phone for you.” 

“About time that wretch finally returns my calls,” Leviticus says. “I’ve been needing to discuss matters with him for far too long. He’s an idiot and I’m a fool for ever getting into business with him.” 

He leaves the room, followed by Blomsbury and Bradley. You sigh and finish your meal, your servant Marie comes forward to clean your plate. “Mrs. Cornwall, you have an appointment with your tailor in an hour. He is expecting you in the…” 

“Yes, Marie, I am aware of this,” you say kindly. “Please make sure the room is ready to receive him.” 

She curtsies and heads off. You dismiss the rest of the staff to do their other chores and head off to your own personal library to read a bit before the tailor arrives. You don’t want to go to this pointless party you’re being dressed for, but you’ve little choice in the matter. 

On your way to the library, you bump into Leviticus Cornwall. Your miserable husband. You apologize for bumping into him as you know it’s the last thing he will do. 

“Y/N, make sure you actually choose a flattering color to wear this time. That purple you wore to the last event washed you out. I had many people ask me if you were ill.” 

“You were the one who told me to wear purple, Leviticus. You wanted us to match, remember?” 

He ignores your remark. “Just pick something that actually looks good on you, Y/N.” He continues on down the hall to his study. 

You sigh. How you hate him. Being born with a silver spoon in hand, you thought your entire childhood you’d be able to afford the luxury of finding someone you loved to marry. In your early twenties, your father and mother took that opportunity completely out of your hands. All the other women your age they knew were already married and some were even mothers. Your father was at least generous enough to want to find you a husband who was wealthy enough to let you live comfortably the rest of your life. Soon after, Leviticus Cornwall became a client of your father’s. They talked much and your father found out that Leviticus was a widower. His wife had passed away some years ago from complications during her first childbirth. The baby hadn’t survived either. It was arranged shortly after your father met him that you two should at least become engaged. 

You were not happy when you found out. You’d recently met a young man at the library you were rather fond of. You knew your father would never accept him, he came from a middle class family. But he was your age, funny, attractive and very sweet. Just before you’d gotten the nerve to ask him out on a date, your father told you about your arrangements with Leviticus Cornwall. The man himself had been present when your father told you this, for Leviticus wanted to make sure you were at least pretty enough to be his fiance. When he saw you, he didn’t smile but he nodded approvingly. 

“She will do,” he said after circling you and assessing your body. “You didn’t tell me she was so young.”

“I have no control of her age, Mr. Cornwall,” your father replied. 

“No I suppose not,” Leviticus answered. “Still. You are lucky that I am a busy man and have no time nor patience to care for the opinions of others when it comes to my lifestyle. I hope she does not either, for some will think it inappropriate a man my age have a wife so young. A mistress, sure, but not a wife.” 

“Of course, Mr. Cornwall. But she will make a wonderful wife,” your mother assured him. “She’s smart, she went to the best girls’ school in London. She also has many skills, she learned to paint and sing from a young age. She’s also finely accustomed to riding a horse. Properly of course, not that uncivilized way some women choose to ride with a leg on either side.” 

Your mother was really selling you to him. Of course, you had learned how to do these things, but it didn’t mean you liked them. As far as riding side-saddle went, you detested it. There was little that was more painful than doing it that way, but of course you’d never ridden the way men did. 

After much discussion, mostly on the matters of your dowry, it was settled. You were to be married to this man whom you barely knew. Three months later, you became his wife, despite him still being mostly a stranger to you. He’d had so little availability during your engagement he rarely visited and when he did, all he talked of was the things he had to do, his businesses and the problems that came with them. How he was interested in buying stakes in certain companies or outright buying them altogether. 

When Leviticus became your husband, you moved with him down to Pennsylvania. He had the largest estate of any person you’d ever known. His mansion sat on over a hundred acres, some of them finely manicured but most used for livestock or farming. His stables themselves were huge and he even had an indoor riding arena, a rare thing to see. Leviticus bred horses on the side, although he did little of the business himself. 

You head off now to the parlor where you are meeting the tailor. After over an hour of measuring and discussing styles, you finally give the tailor the final order on your dress and head out of the room. Marie meets you in the hall and holds open your schedule. 

“Mrs. Cornwall, Mr. Cornwall has just received urgent news from New Hanover. His train traveling through Ambarino has just been robbed.” 

“Well, good for him,” you say, growing tired of hearing about nothing but your husband’s affairs. “I have other things to attend to.” 

“Actually, that’s just it, ma’am. Mr. Cornwall will be travelling later this evening to New Hanover in order to speak with the investigators. As he will be travelling, you are to accompany him.” 

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Of course he wants you to go with him. It’s not because he loves you, hell you’re just another possession of his. You’ll be there strictly for appearances. Marie does not wait for you to respond.

“Your things are already being packed, Mrs. Cornwall. Be ready to leave by this afternoon.” Without another word, she leaves.

You’ve had enough of this. Over the past few weeks, you’ve caught yourself fantasizing about a simpler life, one without schedules and a loveless marriage. One that doesn’t mean you’re surrounded by money but by opportunity. People won’t tell you where to go, how to dress, walk or talk. One where you’d be allowed to just be you. All your life, you’ve been told how to act, how to be. But before you got married and were still studying in the public library, you had all those friends who your father called “common folk”. Although they had undeniably less money, they were happy. Happier than your parents, happier than your husband surely. They were free to go where they wanted and be who they were. You’ve never had that luxury. 

Not only that, you don’t want to go with Leviticus on another boring trip to investigate nonsense with his business. What does it matter if his train got robbed? The criminals likely only took a few thousand dollars and Leviticus had enough to buy a small country if he wanted. Still, you know that if he lets this slide, he’ll feel he’s made himself a target and a fool. As you know, he is all about appearances. You come to the decision to talk to him about you staying here.

You find Leviticus in his study, going over some papers. Bradley stands attentive before him as Leviticus murmurs things about his train being robbed. 

“Mr. Cornwall,” you say as you rarely address him by his first name. 

“Not now, Y/N, I have something more important to see to.” 

“Mr. Cornwall, I want to talk to you about tonight,” you say, sounding more bold than you feel. 

He throws down the papers and glares at you. “What? What could you possibly want? Did you not hear that I have just been robbed?”

You stare right back at him. “I heard, but I don’t know why you’re making such a big ordeal of it. They couldn’t have taken more than a few thousand dollars. Do you not take more than that on a daily basis from the people who work for you?” 

His eyes darken. “I will not be told how to run my business by my own damn wife. Bradley, get out.” 

Bradley bows and leaves, shutting the door behind him. Leviticus stomps up towards you, his teeth bared. You stand your ground. He simply puts his face inches from yours and breathes hard, clearly trying to intimidate you. After a moment, he takes a step back. 

“Now go get ready. I want to leave in an hour or two.”

“I am not coming with you, Leviticus. You can deal with things on your own. Hell, I’ll just be shut up in some damp and poor excuse for a manor anyways. It’s not like you need me there to impress a governor. You’re simply overseeing an investigation of your own affairs.” 

Without warning, Leviticus turns and slaps you hard. You flinch and cup your cheek. Of course, this wasn’t unexpected. He’s hit you several times before, but most of the time he’s been decent enough to put your bruises in places others won’t see. 

“I said you’re coming with me and that isn’t changing just because you don’t feel like it,” he hisses. 

You lower your hand and glare at him again. “No I’m not, Leviticus. It’s completely pointless for me to go with you. You can’t make me-” 

He slaps you again and this time you feel your lip burn. Pulling your hand away, you see a spot of blood on your finger. 

“Don’t make me hurt you,” he snarls. 

“I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” you say, your eyes watering from the stinging of your face. He raises his hand again but does not swing. 

“If you think what you feel now is pain, you’re in for a surprise, Y/N. Now go get ready. I won’t tell  you again. I’ll drag you out to the carriage by your ears if you don’t come willingly.” 

You take his threat seriously. His servants will not hesitate to force you into his carriage, they’re just as frightened of him as you are. Everything in his life he rules over with an iron fist. His eyes flash as you stand there and you quickly dart out of the room, knowing that to stay means further abuse. 

When you arrive in your dressing room, Marie applies a powder to your face to hide the red welt rising on your face. She says nothing to comfort you though and then she helps you into a dress suitable for travelling in. When you’re done, you dismiss her, claiming you need some time alone. She curtsies and leaves, closing the door. 

You’re done with this. This life, this marriage. You want no part of it. Of course, your parents aren’t a help. They’re the ones who arranged this marriage for you in the first place. You’re going to escape though, and this trip is the perfect opportunity. You know there will be ample opportunities to escape, after all your staff aren’t that tough. They simply take care of you, not act as a guard. 

Quickly, you grab a bag and stuff several items of jewelry into it, knowing you can trade them for money. You won’t go east or north towards Boston or New York. When Leviticus discovers you’ve gone, he will search for you and those directions will be the first place he looks since they’re the only places you’ve been. You’ll head west. Maybe you’ll act as a house maid or something of the likes, except you’ve no workable skills. You’ll work out those details later. Right now you focus on your escape and how you’ll be able to afford living on your own. 

You head into your large closet and grab a small black box behind a rack of overcoats. In it is stored a few thousand dollars Leviticus always keeps in case of emergency. You swiftly empty it, stuffing the bills into your bag. Then you tuck the bag under the skirt of your dress. With a belt, you secure it around your waist where no one will notice its presence. 

A few moments later, Marie enters the room again. “Mrs. Cornwall, the coach is ready. Mr. Cornwall reminds you that you are obligated to accompany him.” 

You nod and grab your gloves, slipping them onto your arms and following her out. Once outside, you hold your head high and Stanley, your coachman, offers his hand to help you inside it. Once you’re settled, you wait a few minutes before Leviticus joins you. You ignore each other as the coach moves.

You’re taken to the train station where you ride inside Leviticus’s personal car and head down to Annesburg. There, Leviticus puts you on another coach but does not accompany you as he wants to discuss buying a stake in the Annesburg mine. You don’t care, of course. Soon his business won’t be any concern of yours. 

The coach leaves Annesburg and heads west in New Hanover. Stanley explains  you’re to stay in a small manor near the border of West Elizabeth. The coach travels further away from Annesburg.

The sun is setting and the coach travels along long grassy plains. Deer dash away from the trail at the sight of your coach. The coach travels over some tracks and then comes to a halt. The driver explains the horses need to rest and feed. Stanley gets out of the coach in order to stretch his legs. You wait for a moment, knowing he’s going several yards away in order to smoke. The driver of the coach is not paying you any attention either as he fiddles with the feed sacks, attaching them over the horses noses. 

Now is your chance. You swiftly look around for anyone who might be watching, but no one’s around. Two men are playing dominoes on the train platform but they don’t even glance your way. A train rumbles up and then stops, preparing to take on passengers. As quickly as you can manage with your heavy gown, you dash out of the carriage and onto the train, not bothering to buy a ticket. Just as quickly, you settle into a seat on one of the finer cars, knowing that you look the part of someone who belongs there. You fidget with your hands, afraid someone spotted you. You keep a close eye on the driver of the coach and Stanley, who’s still smoking. Before either of them even start looking towards the carriage, the train’s whistle blows and begins to move. 

You breathe a sigh of relief as the station disappears behind you and you check again that your bag of stolen money and jewels is still attached to you. You’ll get off at the first station, knowing that a ticketmaster is likely to come around and see everyone aboard has paid. Almost on queue, he comes into your car and starts making his way around. When he gets to you, you slip a ring with a large ruby on it in order to bribe him. He nods and goes on his way. You realize you should have asked him that he’d never seen you on this train, but he’s gone at this point. Oh well, he likely won’t remember your face anyways. 

The train chugs north. You know by this point Stanley knows you’re gone. How could he not know? The coach had only stopped for a few moments. You’re sure at this point they must know you’re on the train. There was nothing else around that could whisk you away so quickly. Now you’re beginning to see the flaws of your plan. At least you have it in your favor that a train is much faster than a coach. 

A little over an hour goes by and the train begins to slow after coming out of a long, dark tunnel. It stops at an old military station, the name “Bacchus” written above a rickety door. Some men, dressed in army uniforms, stand on the platform. When the train stops, you see men begin moving some boxes and barrels off a flatcar towards the rear of the train. Now is the time to leave.

You head outside, glad that none of the other passengers questioned your movements. Once off the train, you travel south, following the road but staying off it in case the coach happens to come along this way. 

You’ve never been this far west before, but the country is beautiful. Tall, wispy aspens flutter their leaves in the gentle evening breeze. An elk lifts his proud head from a berry bush and stares at you, almost as though he knows he’s far more of a threat to you than you are to him. He goes back to browsing as the sun dips beyond the mountains. 

Now you’re faced with another predicament. You’ve never slept outside and you don’t know the first thing about how to start a fire or find shelter. However, in a cluster of trees just south of the road, you see flickering firelight. Approaching it, you see a wagon and near it, surrounding the fire, is a blond man, his wife and two children, a boy and a girl. You approach slowly and the man looks up. 

“Ah, hallo, gnädige Frau!” he says. You swallow. Of course, you took German when you were younger, but it’s been many years. 

“Guten Abend,” you respond. His smile is warm and his family looks at you kindly, though they have already noticed how out of place you look in your heavy dress, feathered hat and high heels. You ask them if you could use their fire for the evening and they agree brightly. 

You sit down, thanking them and the boy hands you a plate of Bratwursts and the girl offers you some German bread. You thank them again and eat, feeling quite hungry. As the sky grows darker, the family talks in their native tongue. You’ve forgotten most your German lessons, but still manage to pick up a few words. 

“Ich haben ein Fragen,” the woman says to you. You recognize the word Fragen: question. You nod in recognition. “Was machst du hier?” 

“What?” you ask, not understanding that line. 

She gestures your clothes and then the fire. She wants to know why you’re here. You’ve no idea how to translate your predicament into their language. The young girl tugs on your sleeve. 

“Ich kann etwas Englisch sprechen.” You nod.

“I am running away from my husband,” you say slowly enough that the girl can translate to her parents. “He is very rich but I am not happy with him.” 

“Bist du schon lange gelaufen? Bist du mit dem Boot hierher gekommen?” The girl looks at you.

“Have you been running long? Did you come here by boat?” 

You realize they must be confused by your accent. Although you’ve lived in America many years now, you still retain a decent amount of your British accent. 

“No, no I only just ran away. I came here on a train, but my stagecoach driver and servant will be looking for me and they know I took the train.” 

The parents nod, understanding now how you came to be at their fire. 

“You are welcome to stay with us tonight,” the girl translates for her mother. “We are headed for Valentine tomorrow and can drop you off there.” 

You thank them again and finish your meal. Not longer after, they show you a place under a canopy they’ve stretched over a spot of grass next to their wagon you can use. They’ve nothing to offer you except an old blanket. You take off only your shoes and hat and fall into an uncomfortable sleep. 

 **********************

In the morning, the family takes you to the small town of Valentine. There, you say your goodbyes and head into the general store where you trade in some jewels for money and buy some shirts and pairs of jeans. You’ve never worn pants before, but you figure the less you look like yourself, the easier you can hide. By this time surely, Stanley will have found a way to reach your husband and tell him of your disappearance. Leviticus may see you as nothing but property, but he will want you back, so you know he will begin a raging hunt. You desperately hope he never finds you as you hate to think what he’ll do to you if he does.

After buying clothes, provisions and a satchel to store things in, you head over to the stables and buy a tall cherry bay Thoroughbred named Willow. Only when the stablemaster comes out holding a heavy saddle do you realize another problem: you’ve never ridden with one leg on each side of the horse, only side saddle. Still, when you lead Willow out of the stables, you climb awkwardly into the stable and try your best to secure yourself in it, though it feels very foreign to you. You almost decide to buy a pistol from the gunsmith but realize that’s a foolish decision. You don’t know the first thing about guns and could very well end up shooting yourself. You decide it’s best to try and keep heading west, further from your home. 

As you head south and away from Valentine, only going at a walk since you’re unaccustomed to riding this way, Willow snorts and stomps her foot, coming to a stop. You try urging her to walk on, but she just snorts again. Looking on the ground, you see a rattlesnake on the path, coiled and rattling its tail at her. Willow suddenly rears up and throws you to the ground before darting off into the trees. The snake slithers off, but your shoulder hurts terribly from where it slammed into the ground. 

“You a’right, ma’am?” a voice asks. 

Looking behind you, you find the picture-perfect example of a cowboy sitting astride his horse. His dark gambler’s hat shades his eyes from the sun and his blue shirt is worn and dirt. He looks at you, his face tanned and dirty from days of being in the sun and the wild, his jaw stubbled with a short beard. You notice his blue eyes. 

“Yes, I’m alright,” you say, standing up and clutching your shoulder. “My horse was spooked by a snake.” 

“I saw,” he says, dismounting his horse. “You need help catchin’ her?” 

“Could you help?” you say, grateful he’s offering. “That would be lovely, sir.” 

He tips his hat and then runs off into the trees where Willow went. You hear him talking to her in a gentle voice. A moment later, he leads her out. You thank him and then try mounting up, but what was a difficult task before is even harder now that your shoulder’s hurt. 

“You need help, ma’am?” he asks again. 

You nod and with a wavering voice explain that you’re new to this. He huffs a small laugh. “New to ridin’ a horse, sounds like ya just came here from London or someplace. You sure you’re doin’ a’right?”

You realize he’s not asking about your physical being, but more about your situation. 

“To be honest, no sir. I’m… well, I come from a wealthy family but my husband died in a… a bad way and I had to run. Only I don’t know the first thing about being on my own.” You hope  he doesn’t hear the lie. 

“That much is clear,” he says, his hands on his hips. He looks rather attractive as he does and you blush and look away. He sighs heavily. “Well, sounds like you need help. Now I ain’t exactly clean in my own history, but I’m willin’ to offer you help until you get settled. Come on.” 

He helps you into your saddle and then leads you further down the road and into a large cluster of trees where a large camp is nestled. Over the next few hours, you’re forced to sit by the horses as the man who helped you discusses with two other men whether you should be allowed to stay. In the end, they agree you can with the warning that if you mention them to anyone, particularly lawmen or Pinkertons, they will not be forgiving. 

“Trust me,” you say to a tall man with a large black mustache and dark eyes. “I’ve no interest in speaking with lawmen. My husband will likely have them in his pockets, so they are just as much my enemy as they are yours.” 

The man nods and walks away, asking a middle-aged woman with a thick bun on her head to help you set yourself up.

*******************************

Over the next few weeks, you learn that the camp you’re living with is a gang of outlaws, led by Dutch Van der Linde. His second in command is Hosea Matthews and the man who brought you here, named Arthur Morgan, is his right hand man. 

Your introduction to the rest of the gang was not the smoothest as the matriarch, a woman named Susan Grimshaw, went into a right fit when she learned you have no domestic skills. “I never heard somethin’ so ridiculous in all my life!” she said. “Can’t even wash clothes!” 

The other girls were kind enough to teach you how to do the chores around camp. You knew how to sew at least, not because you ever had to repair your own clothing but because you’d learned as a child how to embroider and knit. Luckily, sewing up the gang’s clothing is similar work, though with little art. 

You like learning how to cook with a man named Simon Pearson. He’s quick to tell jokes, although he tells a lot of stories about his days with the navy and he only knows how to make a few things. You do somewhat miss having three-course meals three times a day, but you know you won’t starve here. 

Most of the people in camp are kind and curious about you, although you tell them nothing of your husband’s real identity. You’ve told them all he died and never mentioned his name. For some reason, you get the feeling that to let slip the fact that your husband is Leviticus would be a bad thing. Cornwall’s got a lot of business out this way and he’s made a lot of enemies. You simply tell the others that your husband and you moved down here from London a few years back but he’s always been an abusive, hateful bastard and because you’re in America, the land of opportunity, you finally had a chance to get away from your life after his death. The others scoff at you calling this place the land of opportunity, saying there’s little of that to go around for people like them. 

*******************************

You’ve become quite close to this gang that has quickly become your family over the last few weeks. Although most of them have their own sordid pasts, they’re good people. They have a sense of family you’ve never seen before, considering they come from a background your father would call “degenerate”. You’ve never seen people work so quickly and with such a sense of duty. Of course, that doesn’t mean they don’t have their problems with each other. Arguments do break out, but most of them seem to be for show and rarely end in physicality. 

Only a week after you’d shown up, Arthur and some of the others came back with a red-haired man named Sean. You instantly knew he was Irish the moment he spoke. Since you both came from across the pond, you became close friends. You would have liked to get to know a woman named Molly O’Shea better as she was also Irish and she clearly came from a privileged background, but she didn’t seem interested. 

The person who was most interested in you though was Arthur, the man who’d brought you here. Of course, you were extremely interested in him too and it didn’t take long for you to get feelings for him. He works the hardest out of all of them and he cares about everyone. You saw him bring Mary-Beth a fancy fountain pen one day after she’d mentioned she wanted one. During his rare breaks when he was in camp, he’d often come find you. He claimed he just wanted to make sure you were settling in fine, but you noticed he stuck around you more than the others. He asked a lot of questions about your past, what your childhood and marriage was like, why you left. You told him everything except who your husband was and the fact that he wasn’t really dead. 

When you mentioned you lived your entire life being waited upon, he told you it sounded awful. “How did you not feel like a prisoner?” he asked. You were caught off guard by the question. Before you’d run away, you never felt that way. Now that you’re out here though, completely responsible for yourself, you realize you might as well have been a prisoner. You feel slightly envious about the others, realizing that even though none of them (except perhaps Molly) grew from well-off families, they’re wealthier in something you missed out on in life. All of them have tradable skills that you’re just now learning. Not only that, none of them have to put on a mask, hide who they are. Karen’s not shy about her drinking habits. Tilly used to run with a vicious gang and sometimes she talks about what that was like. No one in camp has ever had to pretend to be someone else. Something you were never allowed to do. 

You sit now with the girls, reading aloud from a book Mary-Beth gave you. Although you often worked with them, they liked you to read aloud. Something about your accent, you suspected. Just as you’re reading a rather romantic scene from the almost sickeningly passionate story, Arthur walks over to your group, clearly wanting to see what’s going on. He has a habit of doing that, which you find endearing. You hide your smile and continue reading as he stops, his hand on his gunbelt. He smiles as he listens, his eyes soft. 

Just as he’s about to say something, John Marston walks over and punches his arm. “Come on, Arthur. Got a job for ya. We’re gonna steal some sheep but need to go to Valentine for something.” 

“Fine,” Arthur says gruffly. Not long after they leave, Dutch and Strauss head off too. 

An hour or so later, the four men come back looking sweaty and angry, Strauss’s leg is bleeding. You’re washing some plates by Pearson’s wagon and Hosea marches over to them. 

“Dutch, Dutch what happened?” 

Dutch dismounts his white horse. “Turns out old Leviticus Cornwall don’t take too kindly to being robbed.” You freeze when you hear the name, but Dutch doesn’t notice. “He came up and tried to kill us, wants us to stop robbing him. We’ll have to leave this place, we had to shoot half the town in order to escape.” 

You follow Dutch into his tent, staying a few steps behind as you listen to him and Hosea. They talk a little more about what led to them being shot at, but neither of them mention knowing Leviticus has a runaway wife. You breathe a sigh of relief. They don’t know, and if they do, they don’t know it’s you. 

******************************

After fleeing Horseshoe Overlook, Arthur and Dutch both agreed you needed to learn how to rob, ride a horse properly and shoot a gun. Arthur took it on himself to teach you those things and he was an incredible instructor: patient, knowledgeable but not arrogant. The more time you spent with him, the deeper your feelings got. A nagging suspicion settled in your gut that he liked you too. It was just the soft way he spoke to you, how his hands lingered on yours when he taught you how to shoot a shotgun. One time you slid right off Willow’s back and he came over to help you up, but his hands stayed on your arms too long. 

It didn’t take long for rumors to get out that you and Arthur were sweet on each other. Of course, you tried denying them, more to protect Arthur than yourself. No way could he want to be with you: a spoiled rich girl who didn’t even know how to sew a button on a shirt when he met you. He never treated you like a spoiled brat and he mentioned to you time and time again how sweet and honest you’ve been with everyone. 

One night after Arthur, Karen, Bill and Lenny robbed the bank in Valentine, Dutch demanded a party for their success as they brought back a lot of cash. Everyone drank and sang together, but it wasn’t long before Sean, Uncle and Lenny started needling Arthur for having a crush on you. He denied it again and again until John came up and joined the fun, stating how obvious it was with a list of examples of his behavior that proved he liked you. 

“I bet you ten dollars, Morgan,” John said, “that if you went over there and kissed her on the mouth right now, that girl would be blushing like crazy and wouldn’t even be mad. I know she likes  you.” 

“Shut your damn mouth, Marston,” Arthur retorted. That was until the other boys joined in on the bet, which climbed up to fifty dollars. All he had to do was kiss you in front of everyone right now. He’d had a lot of whiskey and his face was bright red, but when he looked at you sitting at the round table singing with Grimshaw, he couldn’t help but feel his heart flutter. You looked so beautiful in the light of the lantern, your cheeks pink from your own drunken state. 

“Go get her, son,” Hosea said. Arthur looked at him and then got up, walking slowly over to you. He fidgeted with his hands, terrified but fueled by drink. When he got to your table, he stopped. 

“Y/N, I got somethin’ to say to ya,” he said. 

You smiled and stood up so he could address you. “Alright, Mr. Morgan. What is it?” 

He stammered for a bit, his face growing redder. He hid his eyes beneath his hat and his hands were shaking. God, he was cute when he was nervous. 

Without warning, he suddenly grabbed you and bent you slightly backwards, his lips planting on yours. Out of all the things Arthur could have done that night, that was certainly the last thing you expected. You almost pulled away, but his lips were warm and rough against your smooth skin. He smelled nice too, like pine and leather although you could taste the alcohol on his lips. Forgetting that you had an audience, your hand wove up behind his neck, pulling him closer. Your chest grew warm and a light feeling overcame you, making you kiss him back. 

Someone whistled at you and Arthur, followed by several people laughing. That brought you back down to the present and Arthur pulled away from you and then straightened you up. His face was horribly red, but he was smiling. “Sorry, Y/N,” he said. “I hope I didn’t frighten ya.” 

“Maybe a little, but I liked it,” you said, your hand still on his chest. You glanced at the onlookers as they continued to laugh and tease you. You bit your lip and looked up at Arthur. “What say you we go somewhere more private and try that kiss again?” 

He quickly grabbed your hand and led you off into the trees and then onto a moon-bathed beach by the lake. There, you two ended up doing much more than kissing, although that’s how it started. Encouraged by your drunken states, you were the one who got carried away and stripped out of your clothes in order to swim in the lake to relieve the heat of the air and your body. Arthur followed soon after, but you remember the way he watched you swim. Not long after, you ended up lying with him on the beach, his body glowing silver under the moon. You climbed onto him just to kiss him, but as you were naked and alone, it didn’t take much to end up going further. 

Although the only man you’d slept with before had been Leviticus, it was never on your terms and he only did things with you for a moment before he reached his satisfaction and was done with you. However, Arthur was so different. He touched you in just the right places, his rough hands gliding along your naked back and hips. He felt amazing inside of you as well, almost as though your bodies were molded for the other’s. He’d gotten you to release first then followed shortly after. You never knew sex could be so passionate and emotional, but Arthur made you feel and think things you’d never experienced before. 

The morning after had been a bit awkward when the two of you woke up naked on the beach, still wrapped around one another. You had a pounding headache and knew Arthur did too. When you remembered what you’d done together, you both panicked a moment. Had you really slept with Arthur the same night you found out he loved you back? The two of you dressed but stayed on the beach and talked things out. You came to the decision that what had happened had felt right and you wanted to stay together. After that, you were very open with your relationship to Arthur with the rest of the gang. 

That all happened weeks ago, and you’ve grown to love him more than you thought possible. You’d dreamed of finding a man to love as a child, but had no idea it felt like this. Even as a child, the men you’d imagined you’d love couldn’t hold a candle to Arthur. He’s thoughtful and secretly sensitive, but protective and strong. You remember the way he held you when Sean died, almost crushing you as you sobbed into his chest. Another time in Saint Denis, a man on the street had said something rather rude about you and Arthur punched him in the jaw. “You don’t get to say shit about my girl, ya hear?” he roared as the man fled. You couldn’t dream of a more perfect man to love than Arthur Morgan. 

You were crushed when Hosea and Lenny died and most of the gangs’ men, including Arthur, ended up on a boat and stranded on Guarma. You never thought you’d miss anyone so much, but during the couple of weeks that he was gone, you felt physical pain in his absence. You spent many nights lying on his cot clutching one of his shirts, willing his scent to stay and offer you some level of comfort. When he returned, it was like you could breathe again. Shortly afterwards though, the Pinkertons forced you and the gang to flee Lakay and into Beaver Hollow, an old Murphree hideout. 

That’s where you are now. While things with the gang have always had rough patches, now they’re worse than ever. People fight constantly and Dutch seems to be losing his mind. He’s changed from the intelligent, cunning but caring man into someone who’s still intelligent and cunning but enjoys killing. It doesn’t help that Micah constantly hisses into his ear. 

Over the past few months of travelling with the gang, you’ve heard relatively little from and about your husband. Somehow you’ve managed to avoid the patrols he’s likely sent out to look for you and you only saw your name show up once in an article in the Saint Denis paper about your disappearance. However, with tensions in the camp running higher than ever and Dutch acting so mad, you’re beginning to fear things are about to come to a head with you at the center. 

Micah strolls into camp, holding a newspaper under his arm and followed by Bill. They’ve just come from Annesburg, having scouted there for possible leads on scores. You’re standing at Pearson’s wagon, preparing tonight’s stew. Micah gives you a knowing and dark smile that you don’t like as he heads to Dutch’s wagon. A bad feeling comes into your stomach and you follow behind him a few steps. 

“Dutch, I just found somethin’ out. Somethin’ that could be real useful. Somethin’ with ol’ Cornwall,” Micah simpers at him. 

Dutch lowers his cigar and looks at Micah expectantly. Micah rubs his hands together. 

“Did you know ol’ Cornwall’s married and his little wife ran away right after we robbed his train up in Ambarino?” 

“How is this any use to us?” Arthur demands, having been attracted by the name Cornwall. “Not like we’re gonna find her.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, cowpoke. Turns out we already found her and she’s right there.” Micah spins and points right at you. Everyone in camp stops and stares at you as your blood runs cold. 

“Shut up, Micah,” Arthur growls, walking up to your side to protect you. “Y/N’s husband’s dead.” 

“Or is he?” Micah retorts. He flings the newspaper at Arthur. “Read it and weep, Morgan.” 

Arthur furrows his brow but opens the newspaper. “N-no, don’t!” you plead, but too late. There’s a black and white photograph of you standing arm in arm with Leviticus Cornwall, your unsmiling faces staring up at Arthur. He reads the first bit of the article aloud. 

“Leviticus Cornwall, executive of Cornwall Kerosene and Tar, Cornwall Rails blah blah blah has released a new statement regarding the disappearance of his wife. Back in May, Mr. Cornwall’s train was robbed in Ambarino by the notorious Van der Linde gang. In order to investigate the robbery, Mr. Cornwall and his wife Y/N came down from their home in Pennsylvania. Mr. Cornwall last saw his wife in Annesburg when she left to stay in his residence in New Hanover. It was reported that she did not arrive at the home but her stage driver and chauffeur, Mr. Stanley Wilcox, claimed she was missing shortly after arriving at Emerald Ranch. It was unknown then if they had been involved in her disappearance or if she’d been kidnapped by other means.”

“Earlier this month, a citizen of Saint Denis stated he’d seen Mrs. Cornwall in the city. ‘I’d just visited the Cornwall manor a week previously on business with my brother,’ Mr. Henry Larson reports. ‘I saw a painting in a hallway of Mr. Cornwall and his wife Y/N. I recognized her immediately. She was dressed like a farm girl but it was definitely her.’”

“A few days after this incident was reported, authorities had reached Mr. Cornwall about his wife’s appearance, but before he could arrive, the Saint Denis Massacre occurred in which the previously mentioned Van der Linde gang attempted to rob the city’s bank and a shootout between them, the city’s law enforcement and the Pinkerton Detective Agency occurred. The gang of outlaws has since fled the area, but rumors speculate that Mrs. Cornwall is among them. If anyone holds any information towards her whereabouts, they are greatly urged to come forward. Mr. Cornwall has offered a considerable $20,000 to anyone who can find his wife and return her safely.” 

Arthur lowers the paper, his eyes dark. Your hands are trembling. The cat’s out of the bag now and you’re in big trouble. Micah sniggers as Arthur looks at you, his eyes tell you the betrayal and pain he feels. 

“You’re Y/N Cornwall,” he says as a tear slides down your cheek. 

“Only on paper,” you say. “I didn’t know how to tell you.” 

“Oh because it was so hard to say ‘hello, I’m Y/N Cornwall, you just robbed my husband but do you mind if I run with you fellas a while’ when you first arrived?” Micah taunts. Dutch’s eyes are narrowed slightly, the way they do when he’s got a plan coming together. 

You look around at everyone staring at you in shock. Some look like they have a hard time believing it, Mary-Beth and John for example, while others look angry and hurt. Arthur is among them. He drops the newspaper and takes a step back from you.

“All this time,” he says quietly. “All this time and you never mentioned once you’re his goddamn wife!” 

Another tear falls. “I’m sorry, Arthur. Everyone, I’m sorry. But how was I supposed to tell you the truth? You robbed my husband, he tried to kill you. Not only that, I was never married to him by choice. My parents basically sold me to him and he’s never made me happy. Maybe… maybe I was just happy to finally be around people who didn’t associate me with him for once.” 

You clasp your hands in front of you, willing any of them to understand. Dutch walks slowly towards you, his jaw set. Micah follows behind, looking excited.

“You’re Y/N Cornwall. The man who has been hunting us for months. The man who holds the ticket to our freedom from this cesspit of a country. I think I have a new plan.” 

His eyes narrow, glittering. You suddenly realize what he’s thinking. 

“Dutch, please don’t take me to him. I’m begging you. If he finds me again, he’ll kill me. I don’t even know if he’ll pay you for me. Dutch, he hates you and your boys more than anything, you were the only ones stupid enough to rob him. I know for a fact he’s paying the Pinkertons to hunt you down.” 

“How do you know this?” John asks, standing next to Arthur.

“Because I know Leviticus better than any of you,” you say. “He obviously figured out pretty quickly that the gang from Blackwater were the same ones to rob him. He also must have found out the Pinkertons were looking for you, so I’ve no doubt he contacted them and started putting money into their pockets.” 

“Or you’re the rat we’ve been looking for,” Micah sneers. “Maybe you’re the one telling the Pinkertons our every move. Think about it, Dutch. All our problems with them started right after we took her in. She’s been lying to us from the start.” 

You don’t know what to say in your defense. Since you have lied to them from the start about your true past, there’s nothing you can do to say you aren’t lying to them now.

“Dutch, please,” you whisper, your lower lip trembling. 

He sighs and stares hard at you. “Tie her up.” 

Before you can move, two pairs of hands grip you tight and throw you down, your hands and feet being tied up. People are yelling, you hear Sadie screech and Arthur roar. You start trying to look around to ask someone for help, but a black cloth is tied around your head, covering your eyes. Someone shoves another cloth into your mouth, preventing you from speaking. You can still hear though. 

“Dutch!” Arthur roars. “Let’s talk about this! We can’t take her to Cornwall! Like she said, ain’t no guarantee he’d pay us after all the problems we given him.” 

You feel yourself thrown over a horse’s back as Dutch says, “This is the right move, Arthur. I don’t like it, but she’s used us and this is our best shot at getting out of here. Heyaw!” 

The horse beneath you suddenly begins to run and you can hear the pounding of other horses. Arthur still yells at Dutch, trying to make him think logically, but Dutch ignores him. 

After a while of heavy riding in which you feel like all your ribs and your stomach have been heavily bruised from the horse’s movements, they stop. You can smell the thick coal dust and the smell of polluted water. Someone’s hands grab you and you’re set on your feet, the ropes cut. The bandana and gag are removed and you see you’re standing on the pier of Annesburg, a boat docked. The name of it is The Soaring Emily. Leviticus named it that after his first wife. 

“Cornwall!” Dutch hollers, keeping a painfully tight hold on your arm. “Cornwall! Get out here! My friends and I have a proposal for you!” 

Looking behind you and Dutch, you spot Bill, Micah, John and Arthur. Arthur looks at you, pain in his eyes. He doesn’t want to do this, but nothing can stop Dutch in his roll. 

A door on the ship’s deck opens and Leviticus Cornwall steps out, flanked by a group of men, all holding rifles. His eyes glare at you and then to Dutch.

“My friend,” Dutch says. “I heard tell that your lovely wife got away from your clutches. Well, just so happens, she’s been stowing away with me and my boys for the last few weeks. Rumor says you’re wanting her back, so we’re here to make a deal. You give me and my boys that $20,000 and a boat. You get your wife back and we’ll stop robbing from you. In fact, you’ll never hear from us again.” 

Leviticus just laughs. “Mr. Van der Linde, I admire your determination and your daring, but if you think I will give you a single penny, then you’re sorely mistaken.” 

“How about now?” Dutch responds, pulling out his pistol and aiming it at your temple. He pulls the back the hammer, your heart pounding in your ears as more tears fall down your cheeks. Dutch wouldn’t kill you, would he? After all the time you spent in his camp, helping feed the others and bring in money, he’s just going to kill you. Something tells you he will if he doesn’t get his way. 

“Dutch,” Arthur hisses a warning behind him. He’s ignored.

“Now Mr. Cornwall, I know what it’s like to see the woman you love die by the hands of your greatest enemy. Now while I doubt poor Y/N here is the love of your life, you obviously value her in some way. Which would you rather keep? Her life or your money?” 

Cornwall glares back at him, his teeth bared. “I’m a businessman, Mr. Van der Linde. Business doesn’t care for feelings or love. Shoot her if you must, but I will not give you anything!” 

Your stomach drops as you realize that this is it. Dutch is just crazy enough that he won’t care about shooting a member of his own gang. You’re not surprised at all that Leviticus is willing to let you die. To him, you’re replaceable, a mere object. Still you thought you mattered to the others, to Arthur. 

Before anyone can do anything to save you from Dutch’s grip, Dutch nods. “You sure? Fine, I prefer it this way.” He suddenly swings the gun forward and shoots Cornwall, the bullet piercing his chest. He pushes you down as Cornwall’s men begin firing, the others shooting back. The gang begins to run as more men come out from the boat, leaving you where you’ve fallen. You start to scream, begging for help, but it seems no one can hear you amidst the gunfire. 

Suddenly a pair of hands grabs your arms and cuts the length of rope binding them, then they lift you up. “Come on, sweetheart,” Arthur’s rough voice says as you stand. 

You’re shaking hard and you want nothing more than to throw your arms around him, but now isn’t the time. Sharp gunshots litter the air, echoing off the buildings. Arthur grabs your hand and runs north on the train tracks. When you reach a bridge going over a sharp dip in the land, a path running through it, he stops. 

“You go, darlin’,” he says, breathing hard. “Go, don’t come back to Beaver Hollow. It ain’t safe for you there.” 

“Arthur, I’m sorry,” you say, thinking he’s pushing you away because he’s mad. 

“Just go, darlin’. I’ll come find you when I can. But you can’t come back, ya hear? You do and you’re dead.” Before you can say anything else, he’s running back down the bridge towards Annesburg to rejoin the gang. You know he can’t leave of course. Not now anyways. Dutch and the others still depend on him too much. 

You flee from Annesburg, having no idea where you’ll go or what you’ll do. Your horse is back at Beaver Hollow, but luckily all your money and the few pieces of jewelry you stole from Leviticus are in your satchel. You run north towards Willard’s Rest and then stop by the wide river where you finally break down. The past few weeks come rushing through you, the good and the bad. You know since Guarma, Dutch has gone crazy but you never thought he’d turn on you like that. Not when he’s spouted for weeks about having loyalty and faith to anyone who would listen. Your life has come crashing down around you so swiftly, you aren’t sure how to process it. 

You stay here for a few hours, going between sobbing, missing the gang (especially Arthur) and feeling numb. As the sun begins to set, you look down the path and see Arthur riding up, your horse in tow. When you see him, you begin to cry again. You don’t run to him though, knowing how hurt he must be. 

He dismounts and walks over to you, pulling you into a tight hug which surprises you. “Arthur, I’m so sorry,” you wail into his shirt. “I never meant to hurt you.” 

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he says into your hair. “I know why ya lied. Hell, I probably would’ve too. But everything else you said, was it true?” 

“Everything is. The way I grew up, how I was sold to him. I promise his name and the fact that he wasn’t dead at the time was the only parts I hid.” 

He sighs and pulls away. “Well, I guess one of your lies came true today though. Darlin’, I’m so sorry.” 

Over the next few hours, you and he discuss what will happen now. He comes to the decision he won’t leave the gang, he can’t. He knows now that there’s no saving Dutch, but maybe he can help the others get out. You, on the other hand, would be handed a death sentence if you stepped foot into the camp. He asks what you want to do and you admit that you just want to live somewhere alone with him and have a quiet life, begin a family with him. He blushes but agrees that’s what he wants to. 

The next day, he takes you to a small cottage he’s seen on the borders of New Hanover and Ambarino, not far from the river. It’s secluded and well hidden in the trees. You have plenty of money to set your things in order, so you’ll be well off here. It’s also far enough from the gang that they won’t find you but it’s not far enough for him to not come visit you. 

Over the next couple of weeks, he visits every couple of days. You manage to take care of yourself quite well having learned through him how to hunt and skin animals. You bought some materials and seeds from the store in Valentine and are determined to start a garden, although you’ve never taken care of plants before. It’s a lot harder than you thought, but you manage to get a few plants sprouting. 

When Arthur visits, he tells you of the things he and the gang has done, how much crazier Dutch gets. Arthur himself is growing angry and mistrustful of him, but he’s determined to help the others escape with their lives. Sometimes you read about the gang’s activities in the paper in Valentine, like Bacchus Bridge being blown up, Colm O’Driscoll’s hanging in Saint Denis followed by a deadly shootout, tensions growing between the Wapiti and the army. 

One night Arthur shows up at your little cabin late into the night. He’s exhausted and there’s blood on his hands. “I’m done, darlin’,” he says when you open the door. “I ain’t ever goin’ back there. I’ve wasted my life livin’ the preachings of a crazy man.”

“What happened?” 

Arthur explains how the son of the Wapiti chief went and did a raid on Cornwall’s oilfield in order to retaliate for them forcing his people off their land. You know Arthur has had many dealings with them, trying to help them in their struggles against the army. Arthur then describes how, after getting bonds from the foreman’s office, he got knocked down by a burst pipe. An officer pinned him to the floor and nearly overpowered him. Dutch had seen it all and even had the chance to kill the man, but Arthur watched him walk away, sealing his fate.  

“If Eagle Flies hadn’t come, I’d be dead. Then that asshole Colonel Favors shot him. He’s dead now, and all because Dutch didn’t care if I died. When I accused him of such, he lied in front of everyone and said he’d done no such thing. I’m done, darlin’. I’m done fightin’ his battles for him just so he can leave me to die. I wanna start a new life with you properly now.” 

“Arthur,” you say, cupping his cheek. “That’s all I ever wanted.”

[rosmarinys]

behind, behind; a familiar face

sense8 au | (will reblog with a link to this on ao3 !!)

The concrete is damp and hard beneath her feet, but Dotty forces herself to stand there for a few more seconds. Her tights are soaked at the soles and she knows she’s going to regret it when she goes back inside and has to deal with it squelching on the tiles of her kitchen floor, but she’s throwing them out anyway; there are too many runs up her thighs and holes at her knees to really be considered a fashion statement at this point.

She knows when she moves she’s going to have to take them off and put them in the bin and get a new pair out of the washing basket and put them on and kiss Gran goodbye and head to work and it’s – It’s a lot. It’s too much. Her head feels like an avalanche and her shoulders tremble with the wind and she wonders how everything will look when it all comes crashing down, when her back crumbles and the bills pile up and her Gran looks at her like she doesn’t know who she is.

But right now, there’s the concrete and it sends a chill like a live-wire through her skin. And for a few seconds, she’s grounded and – Inhale.

Exhale.

Back into orbit now, and Dotty moves. Enters her house through the back door, strips her tights and tosses them into the bin, grabs another pair from the washing basket filled with clean clothes that she makes a mental note to put back into their wardrobes and dressers when she gets the chance, pulls them on before she goes into the living room and kisses Gran on the cheek who is having her supper and watching TV, smiles when Gran tells her to wear a scarf when she goes out because it’s almost winter now, grabs her bag and a scarf and leaves.

There’s a thirty-minute walk between the house Dotty and her Gran live and E20, the nightclub she works in. Or, one of the nightclubs she works in, the thought making her limbs feel heavier. There are two other clubs she works in, all so that the only night she doesn’t work is Monday, and that’s only because Dot had frowned after she’d asked about Dotty’s work schedule. Not that she can blame her Gran, really. Hearing that your only granddaughter works in a garage every weekday and works in nightclubs every week-night, including weekends, she supposes she’d frown too. There is a silver-lining though, her weekends are free during the day, so she can sleep the entire day and get up to go on a walk around the park with Gran during the afternoon before hopping back into bed, pretending that this means she’s getting enough sleep.

Tonight feels different, though, and there’s a second where Dotty forgets why. Then remembers that in a few hours it will be Friday and that means in a few hours it will be her birthday. She stares up at the E20 sign, blaring neon into the dark. (Happy birthday, indeed, she thinks. Unbidden, thoughts of tea parties and teddies come forward. Times when her birthday wasn’t celebrated by serving drinks to those already drunk and trying to dodge a sleaze who’s hitting on her, but rather with eating cake until she felt ill and staying up past her bedtime. Now all she wants is to have a bedtime.)

She’s going to turn nineteen in a few hours, and unbidden the thought of her father springs to the forefront of her mind, the thought of where he is. It’s an old box to poke that lurks at the back of her mind, and she doesn’t want to poke it, not right before a long shift when already she feels exhaustion lining her joints. But it’s hard not to when she realises that in a few hours it will be fourteen years since she last saw him.

It’s weird how she doesn’t remember the last time she saw him; it should be the thing that plays on repeat in her mind, maybe him walking out to grab something and never coming back, or him putting her to bed, those few seconds of him standing in her bedroom door, back-lit by the hallway before she never saw him again. But – nothing. She remembers grinning at him over a stack of pancakes and running around after her friends dressed as a witch because Gran said she could have a dress up party for her fifth birthday party, and then she woke up the next morning and never saw him again. (She supposes it doesn’t really matter in the end, considering he’s gone either way, but her eyes sting anyway, unbidden.)

Dotty pinches the bridge of her nose. There’s no point lingering on such things, she had tried for years, foolishly believing that if she just thought about him hard enough then he’d come back, but it never worked and by the time she turned ten she had turned to actively hating him and hoping he was dead wherever he was, never flinching when Gran spanked her for voicing such thoughts.

(The secret is that she never meant it, and would cry herself to sleep with her face buried into the soft teddy he had bought for her once, pretending she didn’t notice how Gran would pack something sweet for her lunch the next day.)

She sighs and between mentally putting a wall up between herself and all thoughts of her father and staring up at that neon sign that she feels everything tilt and before she can panic about her body finally giving out from the constant abuse she puts it through, she blinks and she’s in a ballroom, her feet are stiff in her heels and her dress tucks in at her waist before puffing out so far that she can’t let anyone within a foot of her body and she’s being spun around and around and God, Hunter is looking over, play it cool, play it cool, everything is perfect and so is he and he’s looking and this could be it, everything is -

Dotty stumbles and almost falls, clutching her stomach and feeling terrified that she’d feel tulle but it’s just her ratty, holey t-shirt. She stands, trembling, for a few seconds, wondering if she’s gone insane or having a fucking stroke or something, desperately trying to remember what the symptoms of a stroke actually are.

Someone who’s about to enter the club stops to stare at her. Probably one of her co-workers, she doesn’t mingle enough to really know any of them, not even their names. “You alright?” he calls, frowning in concern at her.

She feels her back stiffen and forces herself to stop shaking, her muscles tensing as she makes herself move and shove past her maybe-co-worker. “I’m fine,” she snaps.

He steps back to avoid being pushed by her. “Woah, just asking!” he shouts after her and she ignores him, speed-walking to her locker and jamming all her belongings into it except her apron that she ties to her waist as she heads to the bar.

Her boss, Ruby, throws her a sharp look. “You’re late,” she says, finishing up a stock take, placing her clipboard on the bar in front of her to fully focus her attention on Dotty. “We open in fifteen, you were meant to be here five minutes ago.”

“I forgot my phone at home and had to run back for it,” Dotty lies, not looking up from where she’s started to wipe down the counter, going faster to try and make up for lost time, already feeling the bitterness of the apology on her tongue but thinking about the gas bill tucked in her dresser at home that she needs to be able to afford and decides to tack on a, “Sorry.”

She hears Ruby sigh but doesn’t look up, not even when Ruby stands right next to her and she can feel her eyes boring into the side of her head. “Dotty, if everything is too much, and you need to take the night off –”

“Everything is fine,” Dotty cuts her off, forcing her voice to be even when all she wants to do is snap because she cannot lose this job, she just can’t, there's too much riding on it, on everything. “I’m fine and I’m able to work tonight and the rest of my shifts.” She still doesn’t look up and watches her hand moving in circles as if someone else is doing it. She still feels too tense but knows she won’t calm down until Ruby stops staring at her.

Ruby sighs again (She does that a lot around Dotty). “Well, happy early birthday.” She leaves before Dotty can respond, which she was not going to anyway because she’s found her throat tight all of a sudden.

After she finishes prepping for customers, they all start to trickle in and then it’s like she blinks and she’s overwhelmed, not daring to take a second to catch a breath amidst the onslaught of drinks being poured and tips accepted and cash shoved haphazardly into the register.

The hours blur along with the music and the bright lighting, until she feels weightless, drifting along, pushed along by a current of people as she spins bottles in her hands. She doesn’t feel like herself here, here is just a bass that thrums in her ribcage and bounces her head.

Then all too soon it’s over and the music cuts off as people start trickling out just how they entered and Dotty wipes down the counters again, dodging Ruby’s eye as she clocks out and steps out into the world again.

It’s four in the morning, Dotty has been nineteen for four hours and barely noticed, and she has work again in five hours.

She feels the concrete through the thin soles of her boots, flexes the tendons of her feet. Breathes.

Exhale.

And Dotty moves.

//

Louise thinks for the amount of shit women get when they like dressing up in dresses and wearing high heels for events because it makes them ‘bimbos’ or whatever, is fucking ridiculous considering how difficult it actually is. She can feel the blisters forming on her heals despite the plasters she’s wearing and the constant vigilance she has to make sure she doesn’t trip over the hem of her dress is impressive, ok, and she makes a mental note to actually just beat up the next man that implies that she’s stupid just because she likes looking pretty.

There’s a hand around her elbow and she twitches, forcing down a gut reaction because the thought of breaking someone’s nose at the ball for her own birthday would probably haunt her for years.

It’s Ben, grinning at her and only looking slightly haggard but still in a suit, like he said he would. “Surprised to see me?” he asks.

She throws her arms around his shoulders and he hugs her back even though she knows how much tulle she’s in, just how puffy it is around her waist. “Well, you said you’d get off work early but I didn’t think you could actually do it, Dad seemed angry when he assigned you whatever you were doing.” She pulls back to brush off his shoulders, marvelling at how quickly he can get a suit dirty.

Ben’s smile almost falls off of his face before he plasters it back on, back to being all charm and easy going grins that are only 60% teeth. “Yeah, well, he didn’t account for me having friends in high places.” He winks but she can tell he doesn’t want her to ask any more questions about what he was doing earlier tonight.

So, she tucks her hand into his arm and starts leisurely strolling around the ballroom, milling through the mass of people all dressed in the best clothes they all own. “So, is Callum here with you tonight?”

Ben shakes his head as he grabs some glasses of champagne, handing her one and sipping the other one himself. “That’s a no, he’s at home with Lola and Jay, and I am just desperate to get home to him – ” here, he gives a weighted look to show her his meaning, “ – so I hope you don’t mind me skipping out on you after midnight and all the appropriate happy birthdays have been said.”

Louise makes a noise of disgust and shoves his shoulder and tries not to smile while he laughs at her. “Fine, fine, you only need to be here and mingle for – ” she grabs his other hand to look at the watch on his wrist, feels his muscles twitch, just like her's, “ – a half hour! Perfectly manageable, I’m sure, you’ll be able to cope, yeah?”

“Anything for you, dear sister,” he smarms and cackles at her disgusted look as he tugs her into the centre of the dance floor with the throng of people dancing. He adjusts his grip until they’re standing in the appropriate stance for a waltz and begins dancing with her, catching her looking at him, impressed. “What? Why is everyone so surprised I know how to dance?”

“Because you’ve told all of us, multiple times, that you’d rather shoot yourself than dance,” she shoots back. “Poor Callum, how is he going to cope when he finds out you’re actually capable of dancing but have pretended you can’t, just so you don’t have to dance at your own wedding?”

“Ha ha,” Ben replies, rolling his eyes as he spins her and catches her when she spins back to him. “Fine, I have decided to change my stance to ‘I can dance, I just have decided that no one should ever do it’.”

“Well, then, why are you dancing with me?”

Ben looks away from her, taking in the glass chandelier and the floor to ceiling windows that show the view of a perfectly cut hedge maze. “Maybe I like enough to put up with it,” he replies, eventually, eyes carefully not looking directly at her.

She smiles and squeezes his hand to let him know that she understands. He looks at her and smiles back and she thinks she loves her brother almost as much as she did when she was five and he put a plaster on her skinned knee after she had fallen off of her bike.

Over Ben’s shoulder, she can see another couple and feels herself tense with anticipation when she make eye contact with the male dancer who spares her a quick smile which she returns without a second thought, feeling herself start to get flushed.

Ben twists around to see what she’s looking at and immediately starts laughing. “Oh, Jesus, do you still have a crush on Hunter Owen?”

“Shut up!” she hisses, interrupting their dance to yank him away, out of ear shot from Hunter and Ben stumbles after her, giggling away as she pushes her way through a crowd of people before they part from her.

As she marches up the stairs to get to the destination she has in mind: the balcony of one of the many bedrooms in this empty hotel (Dad definitely rented out the entire place even though it is massive, just so she could have the whole place for her party and she reminds herself to get him before it turns midnight so she can hug him and thank him by spending the first few minutes of her birthday with him), Ben continues to cackle behind her. “God I thought you got over him years ago, oh wow, this has been the best part of my night by far.”

She shoves him into the bedroom and storms over to the balcony, welcoming the cool air on her skin before she turns to Ben and crosses her arms. He strolls over to her and leans against the balcony, still looking smug. “I’ll have you know, I don’t have a crush on Hunter anymore,” she informs him.

“I see, so you dragged me all the way up here just to tell me that?” he asks, still looking like an asshole. She sniffs and doesn’t respond. “Ok, ok, it’s fine if you still like him,” he ignore her objecting and starts speaking louder, “But are you fine with liking him considering he’s a massive dick?”

“Says you,” Louise snaps.

“So, you admit he’s an asshole?” Ben shoots back.

“He’s not –” Ben raises an eyebrow. “He’s not completely an asshole. He’s nice to me.”

Ben sighs and looks at the view, bracing his forearms on the balcony. “I just think you could do better than him,” he murmurs.

Louise wants to roll her eyes and say something mean, her temper still simmering her blood, feeling like her dad for a second. She opens her mouth to, poison on her tongue but suddenly Ben isn’t there and she’s in a vehicle, looking over at the driver, mouth open to yell when she sees him swear and twist the steering wheel and she feels airborne, looking out the windshield as it comes closer to the back of another vehicle than it should before they’re spinning and her mouth is still open but she’s screaming as the sky becomes the ground becomes the sky goes up then down and her head has slammed into window next to her and he tastes blood and oh fuck –

Ben shakes her and she feels like she’s fallen fifty feet back into her massive dress and high heels and she wants to vomit but she shoves her head onto Ben’s shoulder and he wraps his arms around her for a second time that night as she tries to steady herself.

“Are you ok, what was that?” Ben asks and he sounds as worried as he does when he talks about Lexi and Callum and Jay and Lola, and isn’t that a high place to be placed by Ben, huh?

She just shakes her head and lets herself be held until her phone beeps in the hidden pocket of her dress to let her know that it’s ten minutes until her birthday. She pulls back and shakes her limbs out. “I’m fine, I’m fine, it’s nothing.” Ben clearly doesn’t believe her with a doubtful look on his face but she waves him away. “Just got shaky for a second there, can you give me a minute? I’ll be right down.”

“Lou, you looked like you were about to start screaming –”

“Ben. Please.”

Ben stares at her for a second and she doesn’t know what he sees but it’s enough because he nods his head and leaves with a final kiss on the top of her head and she decides to forgive him for maybe messing her hair up when he did it.

In the silence of the bedroom, Louise breathes deeply and wonders what her mum would tell her. To put herself back together, brick by brick, and act like nothing had happened.

She opens her eyes, and does just that.

//

Keegan kicks the beer can in front of him and it clatters into the gutter. He waits a few seconds before he sighs, picks it up and chucks it into the bin.

He can imagine Bernie smiling at him for being decent as if he didn't just do the bare minimum and scoffs to no one. Scuffs his shoe on the concrete and can hear his mum chiding him for trying to ruin his shoes.

He figures that he’s misplacing his anger at his thoughts of his family’s reactions to his actions to ignore the fact that he’s actually ashamed that he’s spending his entire birthday in another city without them and can’t stop remembering how their faces fell when he told them, but he doesn’t want to get that introspective right now if he’s completely honest.

He’s waiting for his friend – ‘friend’ being a loose term used here – to drive him to Manchester for a flat viewing he’s got tomorrow that he booked a couple of weeks ago. His friend is only taking him because he’s picking up something that he refused to get specific about – coke probably and Keegan pretends that doesn’t bother him – and would be going anyway.

(His mum hadn’t been happy when he told her he was moving to Manchester and told him so; told him all the risks that come with Manchester and him being alone in a city where he doesn’t know anyone, but most importantly, to Keegan at least, was her pressing him into a hug and patting his cheek. “I love you, eh?” She phrased it like a question and Keegan had nodded in answer and she had smiled like the sun.)

The question his whole family had asked was this: why Manchester?

He couldn’t explain it fully – he had given a variety of answers though, ranging from ‘I just love Manchester United that much, I guess,’ for his dad, and ‘Starting a business in a big city has to be better than starting one here, right? Bigger market and all that,’ for his siblings.

The real reason was this: he didn’t know. It eluded him, but it was this gut feeling he had, a stirring underneath his skin that gave him goose pimples; your life is in Manchester, it said.

So, here he was, a few hours before he turned nineteen, waiting for his friend to pick him up so he could stay in a hotel for the night because he didn’t trust his friend to drive him to his viewing punctually if they did the journey tomorrow.

His mistrust was rightfully given, considering he’s already an hour late.

Finally, after another half an hour in which Keegan googles how much jail time you can get for murder, and then tries to work out if he can get arrested just for googling that, his friend finally pulls up in front of him in his beat-up van.

The friend is called Rocket, the van is also called Rocket. Keegan decides to never talk about it out loud unless directly threatened with bodily harm.

“Alright, mate?” Rocket the Person asks, grinning toothily, several of teeth ironically missing.

Keegan nods his head in greeting and grabs his duffel bag and gets into the passenger seat, immediately setting about falling asleep after the appropriate ‘how are you’s’ are exchanged.

Rocket the Person doesn’t get Keegan’s loud hint of literally setting his feet on the dash and shutting his eyes, and starts talking about some woman he was speaking to last night and what they got up to in his flat, “If you know what I mean?” he adds with a wink that Keegan ignores.

(He can’t stop remembering Bernie’s voice when she whispered, “Did you have to book it for your birthday?” Because the answer is no, he didn’t have to, he chose to after an argument that he can barely remember that he had with his dad and booked it with the thought of how cool it would be to wake up in Manchester on his birthday and not have to see anyone he knew, caught up in the small town feeling that chokes, knowing that everyone knows you and your business. He hadn’t thought much about how the argument would blow over and he would reconsider this plan and actually want to spend his time in that small town he grew up in.)

Rocket the Person continues on, and Keegan tunes him out, watches as they enter the highway, checks his phone and sees that he has a couple hours until its his birthday but Keanu has already texted him a happy birthday and feels himself smile before he tucks his phone away after typing out a response, knowing that Rocket would make a gross comment about his grin that he doesn’t want to hear because it'll spoil his mood.

Rocket the Van rumbles beneath them and Keegan feels it vibrate through the back of his heels laid on the dash and up the back of his legs all while the other Rocket has moved onto how his friend’s bird is a tease; Keegan forces his face not to slip into a scowl and thinks back to his google search and how it hadn’t covered causing car accidents and briefly considers yanking the wheel to try and kill them both to end this conversation.

He snaps when Rocket reaches over to playfully push his shoulder, turning to yell at him to shut up and just leave him alone because they're not actually friends, can he just realise that already, but when he looks over Rocket isn’t there, there’s just a dark field and he’s not sitting in the passenger seat of the van, he’s standing with a shovel in his hands. He stares down at himself, baffled, and sees in the faint moonlight that he’s no longer wearing his t-shirt and soft sweats but rather dark overalls with darker splotches down the front. Before he can figure out what the stains are, he looks at the shape on the ground in front of him and it hits him like a freight train that it's a dead fucking body and he’s standing next to a grave and he’s digging it and god, his face feels sticky with what’s probably blood and he hates herself, she’s awful and she wants to be anything but this -

-and suddenly he’s back in the van but the rumble of the engine is gone and Keegan can barely inhale sharply before he realises that the van is airborne as in flipping over because the trees are upside down and he can see the cars next to them right before he crashes right into them and he thinks he’s going to fly right out of his seat and through the windshield and he’s screaming at the top of his lungs before he hits the glass and that’s it.

//

Ash holds a cigarette between her fingers and wonders if she’s going to pick up smoking. She’s sitting on the edge of a ledge next to a window in a warehouse, a somewhat haunting silence filtering through the open space that Ash finds somewhat comforting. She does this every time she gets a job – consider smoking, that is – and she goes through her mental list of why she shouldn’t like she always does:

Smoking will most likely give her a chronic obstructive pulmonary disease and she doesn’t really want to deal with that and all that comes with it if she’s honest. Also, hacking up her lungs every few minutes seems extremely distasteful.

She doesn’t really want to take smoking breaks with Carl who leers and has yellow teeth and yellow fingers. She suspects that if she was alone with him for a prolonged period of time, he would leave with broken bones.

She doesn’t want to give up anymore of herself, because that’s what this would be: a sacrifice of herself, her willpower. She’d be giving it up and the list of things controlling her would be longer and she doesn’t know if she can take that.

But on the other hand:

She is so fucking tired.

She twists the cigarette and wonders if her entire list of reasons to not smoke will yield to the sheer exhaustion that has settled into her bones. Resisting is killing you, is what Vinny told her the other day. He’s right, but Ash thinks she might be dead before she can admit it, which she supposes is his entire point, which is annoying.

There’s a distant rumbling noise that gets louder until there is a van pulling into the open doors and coming to a stop a few feet in front of her. She focuses on the cigarette between her fingers and doesn’t look up even when two boots appear in front of her.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Ben Mitchell says to her, shifting so that he is standing with his arms crossed, leaning back. It’s too casual, too put on, he’s hiding how he really feels about this assignment. (She hates that her mind works to pick apart body language like that, people's secrets should be their own, not her's to pick apart from their stance.)

She sighs and tucks her cigarette back into the packet and stands up to put it in the back pocket of her overalls. “I don’t,” is all she says as she brushes past Ben and heads to the back of the van and yanks the doors open.

There’s tarp wrapped in a cylinder inside alongside two shovels and Ash wants to cry but beats down the feeling. She hasn’t cried when given clean up duty for three years now. Fuck, she realises. She’s turning nineteen in two hours and she has to bury a dead body for her family. She'll probably still be doing this when it’s tomorrow, when she is meant to be celebrating.

She scrubs a hand down her face, trying to scrape away any traces of emotion even though she knows her poker face will stay firmly in place now matter what because that was how she was raised, but still, the last thing she needs is Ben Mitchell reporting back to his family that one of the Panesars is cracking and the next thing they know, they’re dealing with a coup.

She realises her thought process sounds like her mother, calculating at the head of the table as she orders about the rest of the families. It won’t last, is what Ash always thinks. There are five families joined together for their ‘business’ and eventually they’ll get tired of taking orders from Suki, just like Ash already is.

She glances over at Ben who is staring out of the window, attempting nonchalance. She can read how uncomfortable he is by how tight his shoulders are. She knows he would rather be at his sister's birthday party, who is also turning nineteen tomorrow.

The harsher side of Ash wants to say ‘tough’. It’s not like she wants to either, she didn’t volunteer to do this. This is a punishment for storming off from dinner last night after an argument with her mother about letting her go to medical school. Ash wants to go to Manchester and move out but her mother firmly denied this request and told her she could go to business school here in London, that she would not see her daughter tending to the men like those worked here as if she were below them. It had become a sore point, something Ash brought up at the table every time she wanted to dig her teeth in and bite. Her mother had assigned her this job this morning and Ash could see a glint in her mother’s eyes and knew exactly what it meant. It said: I will tell you to do this, and you will. I am in charge here and you have forgotten. Ash feels bitter; why should Ben Mitchell be allowed pity when Ash is spared none?

But Ash wasn’t all teeth, she wanted to go to medical school to help people. She could feel it in her bones, a bare kindness that she had nursed for years, took cares to make sure that it never disappeared no matter what she had to do for her family. It asked her: what has Ben done to be punished like this, like you? Your punishment is unjust, surely his is as well? She knew vaguely that Ben had a fiancé and a kid and an entire family outside of his other family that operates with her own. What was the point of forcing him here, when he had somewhere to go, unlike her?

“Listen, you take off, alright?” She says, and clambers into the van and tosses one shovel out and starts pushing the body out, feeling vaguely ill at how much it gives underneath her weight through the tarp.

“What?” Ben asks and appears just as the body falls out of the van and he pales at the snap they both hear as the body bends in a way it shouldn’t.

“You take the van and I’ll deal with this,” she repeats, not looking at him as she straps the shovel to her back with a clip on her backpack – not her first rodeo – and shifts the body so its back in a way that gives the person some dignity.

“There’s no need, I’m fine,” Ben snaps, posture shifting again, leaning forward towards Ash. Defensive, her mind supplies.

“I didn’t say you weren’t,” she replies, brushing her hair back from her face as flyaway strands start to stick to the sweat she’s already starting to build up. “Just, I know how to do this and you should go to your family. It's your sister's birthday, right?”

He stares back at her and she thinks he’s going to argue more, but he seems to falter and for a second she can see the yearning on his face. He really loves his family, she thinks to herself, both of them. “Won’t they know I wasn’t here though?” Ben asks.

She shrugs. “I won’t tell if you don’t,” she starts to grin and holds up a hand for a fist bump.

He holds her gaze for a few seconds before he grins too and bumps his fist against hers. They’re both wearing gloves but she likes to think that she could feel the heat from his hand touch hers for a second. Her chest feels lighter as he shuts the doors and clambers into the van, waving at her as he drives back out the front door, a ‘Later, Ash!’ floating in the air behind him.

Her smile slowly slides off her face and is gone by the time the silence returns and she doesn’t like it anymore, not now she remembers what it’s like to have someone speaking to you and fill that space.

She turns and starts dragging the tarp out of the warehouse and into the fields surrounding it. She can’t bury it too close to the building, otherwise the chances of it being uncovered are higher as more people will walk over it, she needs a more obscure part of a field, somewhere someone would rarely walk over in order to notice that anything was off about the land.

Ash sets her eyes on a distant spot and starts dragging the body.

She feels the strain of it in her forearms, a pull that runs up and through her whole body until she sweats through her overalls and she reaches up to wipe sweat off her face to stop it from dripping into her eyes but when she does her face feels stickier than before and she looks down and sees the blood is leaking through the tarp where her glove-covered hand is digging in for grip and feels herself gag but refuses to falter.

She digs her feet in and continues and can’t help the spiteful, I can do this because you can’t, you couldn’t handle the pain in my legs right now but I can, that she directs to her mother.

Finally, she reaches the spot she had decided on and starts digging, not allowing herself a break because if she stops to think then she’ll have to confront that this person might have a family who cares about them and she’s got their blood on her face, and she can't cope with that, she can't do it, she can't cope with all of this blood on her hands, literally and metaphorically.

She realises she’s crying, a quiet keening noise coming from the back of her throat, and a cold voice supplies that there’s now DNA of hers at the scene of the crime but she can’t care, she can’t, it’s too much and she wants to throw the shovel down and wait here until someone catches her with a dead fucking body and arrests her and she can tell them about every terrible thing she has ever done for her family and they have done themselves and then they can all go to jail together and she can deal with her mother’s rage behind bars because maybe that’s the only way to win.

(Remember when winning was beating Jags at Monopoly? Or racing Vinny to the end of the garden? Or trying to learn chess to beat Kheerat, and pretending not to notice how pleased he was whenever she made what he thought was a right move?)

She drops the shovel and braces herself on her knees and sucks in a large breath. I’m going to stand up straight, she tells herself, and when I do, I will get back to work.

She inhales again and feels every one of her muscles stretch as she stands up straight but she doesn’t see rolling fields in front of her, rather an entire crowd of people, all not underneath the moon like Ash was a few seconds ago but rather neon lights that flicker and Ash feels dizzy looking at the lights and the constant movement of the crowd. It feels easy to lose herself and let her limbs go loose and easy, let her head fall back as she laughs, the sound lost in the pounding music, her veins on fire as she thinks to herself that she's a bird, she's a bird and she's going to fly up up up, away from everything and everyone and be free -

Ash’s breath snaps in her throat as she falls backwards and doesn’t land into a pile of people who would catch her and laugh with her as she explained her bird theory, but rather, the grass beneath her rushes up to meet her and she gasps and lays still for a moment, blinking up at the dark night and wonders where that came from, where thoughts of nightclubs, and being a bird and dancing had come from.

She sighs and lets the sound of her own breath fills her ears for a few seconds before she pushes herself up and grabs her shovel from where she had dropped it.

She wants to be back in that moment, even if it was temporary insanity, because that moment of freedom, of just laughing for no reason is lingering in her throat. She wants it so badly that she could cry.

She forces the emotion down and keeps digging. No point in lingering on feelings you’ve never had.

(If her hands tremble on the shovel, then it’s a good thing no one is around to see it.)

//

There’s a moment between throwing back another pill and waiting for it to hit her, that Rebecca wonders how her mother is.

It’s a strange thought in this context; this being Becca throwing back drugs like candy in a nightclub's bathroom and this also being that she hadn’t spoken to her mother in years.

Years being two years, precisely; Becca is a fan of technicalities.

She presses her forehead against the wall of her stall and sighs, starting to feel her muscles loosen up, and lets the thought of Sonia sitting alone every night since she left slip from her mind in favour of the thought of the dance floor just outside the bathroom.

(Besides, Sonia lives with Whitney, so she’s not actually alone. Technicality.)

She stands up and brushes herself off, fingers scratching against the sequins that make up her top, her bare back chilly from the air conditioning but she knows she’ll heat up when she starts dancing again.

She exits the stall and smiles at the other women standing at the sinks before she stares at her reflection. The girl looking back at her has glitter running down her cheeks from underneath her eyes like she’s been crying pure glitter and her hair curls around her shoulders, but she can see where the curls are already starting to fall out. The girl grins at her, and Becca grins right back.

It’s her birthday in a couple hours, she realises as she checks her phone on her way out of the bathroom and she wonders if her mother is going to celebrate for her, without her. Probably not, Sonia was never the sentimental type, not one for lighting a candle for those who are gone. (Is Bex gone? She wonders if her mother pretends she’s dead instead of having to confront the truth that is her daughter ran away from her, exchanged parental love for molly. Wonders if her mother pretends she's dead because that hurts less.)

As soon as she opens the door, the sound of music hits her, loud and heady and slamming right into her chest and she feels breathless as she stumbles into the thick of it, feeling like a lightning bolt whenever her arm brushes against someone else’s, thinking that this is how it’s meant to be all of the time.

She spins around, the bass of the music cradling her skull, her arms loose and she can see everyone around her smiling at her and returns the gesture just like she did in the bathroom, and that’s how it’s meant to be; everyone is meant to be friends like they are here.

She tips her head back and laughs and feels light off of it all, like she’s flying, up up up, and she’s bird, they’re all birds and it’s all light and flying and birds and everyone smiling at her would agree but she can’t get her tongue to agree with her which just makes her laugh more and so do they and it’s just all of it, everything.

There’s a moment between tipping backwards with laughter and trying to right herself that she feels like she stands up as someone else and desperately blinks rain out of her eyes, lifting a fruitless hand to wipe the water collected on her face as she shivers. She’s dragging herself through empty streets, feeling her clothes cling to her skin and cursing as she goes, her feet going numb through her shoes and she lost feeling in her fingers minutes ago but it feels like hours and she could cry, she wants to but she shoves the feeling down in her chest, I have to find Habiba, is what replaces it because it’s all that matters and –

Becca gasps, feeling shoved back and falls backwards, feeling hands around the skin of her waist where her jeans don’t cover and it doesn’t feel like before where everyone was her friend, it feels like nails digging in and twisting, it feels like hands yanking on her wrists, like a voice hissing at her to snap out of it, all bared teeth.

The people around her aren’t smiling anymore (were they ever? Becca feels scrambled like she’s lost something, like an arm in the bathroom, or a leg in Sonia’s living room) and she feels like her chest is open when she pulls away from the hands on her waist and tries to run for the exit, and only crashes into a few people before she’s outside gasping for breath. She's standing in the alleyway next the club and she catches the sight of rain falling in the main street just as a few drops manage to get through the fire escapes on the side of the building next to her to land on her head.

She throws herself forward, landing harshly on her knees but the pain feels distant like it’s not her body but the acid climbing her throat burns, and she feels all of it as she heaves, throwing up all of the meagre dinner she had eaten and she’s crying and shaking and she wants to climb out of her body and leave it here because it all hurts and she’s exhausted with it all, she’s done, she wants to crawl back into her bed and have her mum on the other side of it and have her push the hair out of her face and tell her that she loves her.

That doesn’t happen and Becca stays on her knees – which she can now feel throbbing and regrets landing on them the way she did and wishes she had any care for her body – until she stops trembling and forces herself to her feet and pushes her hair out of her face. It’s her birthday soon, it’s basically her birthday, there’s a rule about not throwing up on your birthday right? Or is it about crying? Becca can’t remember but she makes a mental note to look it up, and immediately forgets.

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and feels that she’s still grinning, teeth wet, lips dry.

Her mother would cry if she saw her, her daughter shivering in a gutter and smiling while she vomits. She won’t though, Becca thinks, forcing her feet to walk, one foot in front of another, over and over. She won’t because she is back in London. Technicality.

//

Iqra and Habiba created a system when they were kids, crouched together with their pinkies linked underneath a table while they waited for dinner to be ready. Iqra was all about systems and constantly followed her grandfather around, asking a non-stop stream of questions about how everything worked which made him smile until his eyes crinkled. Her newest system was this: if she or Habiba were ever in trouble, they would tell each other, A-ozu billahi mena shataan Arrajeem. Iqra had spent the entire afternoon practising her pronunciation and was finally satisfied that she had nailed it.

Habiba immediately fouled her mood by telling her that it would take too long to say, and what if she was being taken hostage and only had a few seconds to say her parting words and used up all of them on the first word, then what?

Iqra responded by whacking her sister in the face with the cushion she had been sitting on.

(Iqra got a lecture about treating her sister with kindess and the phrase was shortened to the first few syllables for convenience and Iqra, very graciously, sat and helped Habiba practice them until she got them right.)

Which is how Iqra is here, dragging herself through the rain and shivering so badly she thinks she’s about to shatter her teeth, all because Habiba texted her their emergency code.

Iqra hadn’t thought twice before throwing herself out of the door, barely pausing to yank a coat on and shoving on boots before she was out in the rain, pushing herself to run in the direction of the address Habiba had airdropped as her location.

She had briefly considered getting a taxi but the thought of standing around and waiting while Habiba needed her left her feeling wired and the second she had stopped to think about it left her feeling fried and she pushed herself to run faster as a sort of punishment to make up for it.

A-ozu billahi. It could mean anything and Iqra reminds herself that Habs once used in when she didn’t have a tampon at work and looked confused at Iqra, throwing herself into the restaurant where they both worked as waitresses, out of breath and frantically scanning her for injuries. But, Iqra reminds herself that she could actually be injured or hurt the one time she decides to take her time to get there and can only imagine how much self-hatred that would bring.

Iqra herself has never actually used their code, she realises as she skids around a corner and kicks water all up her calves and tells herself that if this actually isn’t an emergency she is going to throttle Habiba and then promptly give her the cold she is definitely going to have when she gets home.

Her feet slamming into the concrete send jolts up her legs and she feels like an exposed wire that’s frying underneath this rain, like she’s electricity that’s sparking as she runs across a road and doesn’t spare a glance backwards for the car that beeps its horn at her.

A-ozu billahi. Iqra ignores the gut feeling that tells her that something terrible has happened even thought her grandmother always told her to listen to it. She can’t give it a voice because if she does then she might be showing up to a scene that’s just – unimaginable. She can’t do it, she can’t, and tells herself instead that she actually hopes it’s just going to be Habs asking for a charger because her phone died and she’s waiting for a text from some guy.

Her hood has fallen down, and she can feel her hair plastered to her scalp and the rain runs down her head and all over her face. Some water drips into her eyes and she reaches up to scrub them, but when she brings them back down the street she was about to cross isn’t there anymore but there’s couches and food on the coffee table in front of her but she hasn’t touched any of it because she feels ill and her gran is telling a story about his dad and he doesn’t want to listen anymore because his dad is dead and he was murdered but no one is talking about it and he feels sick and god he wants to leave –

Iqra inhales sharply and stumbles back onto the pavement as a car races by, the headlights blinding her for a second as she centres herself and reaches out to steady herself on a lamppost as she tells herself that she is actually in the street she thought she was, not some suburban nightmare that has left a knot in her chest.

She wants to sit down because her head feels like it’s about to explode and she feels off balance like the world decided to tip entirely to one side without telling her but worry about Habiba feels like a firework and she’s running again before she can really think about it.

There’s only two blocks now and Iqra forces herself to go faster, her breath snapping in her lungs but it doesn’t matter, Habs does and whatever moment she just had has to be put on the back burner for her.

One final turn and Iqra is skidding to a stop in front of some abandoned house that’s crumbling at the seams and the panic is getting worse because what the fuck is Habs doing here.

She yanks the door open and almost rips it off of its rotted hinges and steps inside and in the low light that is slicing in through the holes in the roof, she can see Habiba standing to turn to her, mascara running down her face and blood on her hands and her temple.

“Iqra,” Habiba whispers, face ghastly and Iqra forces down her hysteria and what’s she’s pretty sure was about to be vomit.

A-ozu billahi, she thinks, and yanks off her jacket.

//

The thing with funerals is this: the ones the day before your birthday are always going to suck. Bobby remembers when he saw his gran realise that he would have to bury his dad and then go to sleep and wake up nineteen, how she looked like she was going to start crying again while he tried to tell her that it was ok, that he didn’t mind.

(He did. Mind, that is. But, he’d rather feel like shit on his birthday, which he was going to anyway, rather than see her burst into tears again because she couldn’t even remember when her grandson’s birthday was. That’s not fair, she has enough on her plate. But – But, don’t they all?)

The service was nice enough. A quiet affair with a red-faced minister who read some passages from the Bible and called his dad a good, honourable man a few times (Not entirely true, Bobby recalls his dad sneering at him several times during his childhood whenever he tried to express an opinion he didn’t agree with. But, Bobby supposes death allows for some of your unsavoury qualities to be brushed over).

He had sat in the front pew with his gran and Peter and Lucy who were crying, stoic and also crying in that order. Bobby also didn’t cry and thought he and Peter were setting a terrible precedent for men being allowed to express emotions everywhere but he couldn’t stop thinking about how Dad never liked church all that much and whenever they did go as a family when they remembered or Gran dragged them, he would grumble and tap his fingers impatiently the entire time.

Bobby had made a note to ask Peter if he remembered the time when Dad bumped into an old colleague of his – what was his name again? – and basically ran out of the church with them in tow, but he had forgotten around the fifth bible verse.

Once the service was done, Bobby had to stand outside with his family and shake hands with everyone else who had came and accept their condolences.

(It was all a sham, most of these people all thought Ian was the worst and now they showed Bobby their swollen eyes and snotty noses as if they had lost a limb. But, Bobby supposes they could have loved him under the annoyance and tried to shove down any frowns he had and passed them all tissues and consoled the best he could. What good would there be to be cruel?)

Then it was home and that’s where Bobby had been for the past few hours. Sitting in silence with a glass of water and a plate of untouched sausage rolls on his lap while his gran and sister let people filter through to grab something to eat and reminisce about their favourite memories of Ian before leaving and being replaced and repeat. Peter had sat next to him the entire time, his side a warm grounding point that Bobby pressed into whenever he felt like he was drowning. He keeps thinking that someone is about to say it, say that Dad was murdered but no one does. They all seem to be ignoring it, pretending that the coroner wasn't completely lying when he said that Ian just fell and hit his head and that it was just a unfortunate accident. But Peter stays silent, and Gran and Lucy are steadfastly only reminiscing and so Bobby is staying quiet about it too.

Now, a few minutes until midnight when Bobby would turn nineteen, Peter finally speaks. “So what do you want for your birthday?”

Bobby almost smiles. “If your asking because you haven’t gotten me anything, then you’ve left it a bit late,” he replies, looking at his watch and seeing it was two minutes until midnight, turning to look at Peter so he doesn’t have to think about how his dad had given him that watch when he was sixteen and told him he had to be a man now.

Peter smiles for the first time that day. “You know, I actually did get you something, I’m just scoping out if I got you the right thing.”

“Terrible detective work,” Bobby replies and they share a grin over the sound of Gran and Lucy talking by the dining table, heads close together.

Peter stands up and pats Bobby on the shoulder. “I’m off to bed, happy birthday, Bobby.” Bobby smiles for the first time that day at him.

Bobby gets up himself and heads towards the door. “Bob?” Lucy calls.

“Just getting some air,” he says, and ducks out into the cold before she can say anything else.

The cold is a shock to his system and the second his sock-clad feet touch the freezing concrete, he feels like he falls out of his body and into a nightclub, the loud music shaking him to his bones as he pours shots and slides them down the counter and bops his head as the bass makes everything feel like it’s floating but also impossibly grounded and it’s so much to get caught up in but underneath it all is this exhaustion that lines her joints and she could sleep forever but she can’t, she can’t, she has to keep moving, there’s too much, there’s too much –

Bobby gasps and almost falls back into his house but braces himself on the door frame, reaching over to yank the door shut before anyone can come see him because he’s struck with the need to be alone right now, and maybe for a while, if he’s honest. He breathes deeply for a few seconds, mind scrambling to figure out what that was, does grief make you hallucinate?

When his hands stop shaking, he pushes himself up (when did he start sitting on his front door step?) and stumbles towards his car. He remembers when he passed his driving test, when his dad smiled at him and showed him the key to this car but had held onto them long enough to give a lengthy lecture about safety and maintenance and responsibility before he actually handed them over.

Bobby unlocks the boot and looks at his hand that are shaking again, tremors starting at his wrist and knows he doesn’t want to look inside, hasn’t wanted to for the past week since they all found his dad with blood all over his face.

(Have to rip the bandage off at one point, right?)

He opens the boot and looks inside.

Right in the middle is Peter’s award for straight A’s in high school, a small statue of his school’s crest, blood staining one side of it.

Bobby stares at the murder weapon that killed his dad. And closes the boot.

[kenmab]

in which shizuka meets a friend

Jounouchi was starting to wonder if there was a sign on his forehead that beckoned anyone and everyone to pick a fight with him. While he would normally find himself fuming over the fact that he got into an altercation over being shoved into the guy after getting off the subway, he was more concerned with the idea of getting to the hospital late....again. Shizuka had fallen ill again, but even though the doctors couldn’t pinpoint what the cause of it was, she seemed to be recovering quickly from it. Regardless, Jounouchi had promised his sister that he would be there to see her at noon and he was just only arriving in the right town at 11:58.

Kabia took his time walking down the hallway in the general hospital. His little brother has just gotten his x-rays, if he moved too quickly he’d have to sit alone in the room and wait for them to wheel him in. Kaiba couldn’t believe how easily he’d let himself forget just how much disdain he held for hospitals, everything was too white and too bright. They give off an air of purity to hide the fact that they profit off of those more vulnerable than them, he always thought. But the only thing he could do about it was stroll down the long hallway with his arms folded. And perhaps consider extending his corporation into the medical field as well. His thoughts were interrupted by a familiar face, staring at his own reflection in the picture frame beside a patient door. Kabia sneered to himself, that blonde headed idiot really got a beating, he thought. Good maybe he’ll learn a thing or two about knowing where his place is. He considered saying something to him, mocking him for getting admitted to the hospital for a few punches but then noticed the bouquet of pastel colored flowers in his idle hand, while the other poked at the bruises forming on his face. Kaiba frowned. He’s a bigger idiot than Kaiba first thought, he showed up to see a girl looking like a delinquent. Kaiba then watched the other boy open folded sheet of paper up and scowl at it, before hastily cramming it back into his pocket. The boy then sighed at his reflection, turned, and opened the patient room door. 

“Onii-chan!” 

“Oy, Shizuka! Sorry I’m late, I just wanted to stop and get something colorful for your room,” the blonde headed kid said and slid the door shut behind him.

Shock wasn’t the right word, but Kaiba felt a sort of surprise. For a moment, the other boy had caught him off guard. He glowered and bit the inside of his cheeks. You idiot, if you show up to your younger sibling’s side looking like that all you’ll do is make them worry. Kaiba then decided it wasn’t in his best interest to worry about the affairs of others, he was only in this cursed place to visit his own younger loved one. Mokuba might have made it to his own room by now, waiting on his older brother. Yugi’s friend served well as a time killer, but Kaiba had real business to take care of and didn’t want anything to get in the way of that. Despite telling himself those things, his curiosity had enough control over him to notice and grab the paper lying on the floor outside of the door the blonde boy had entered. 

-------------

Jounouchi placed the hydrangeas in the vase on the nightstand and gave his little sister a goofy grin. Shizuka had a habit of getting sick, while also having a miraculous power of recovering quickly, though her mother always admitted her just in case. Jounouchi never minded, he just liked to spend time with his sister whenever he could. Though she pursed her lips at him. 

“Shizuka, you won’t believe the kinda trouble Honda got into last week,” Jounouchi said with a chuckle. Shizuka’s face remained unchanged. “...okay I know I said I’d be here half an hour ago but--”

“You got into another fight, didn’t you?” Shizuka didn’t even pretend to hide the disappointment in her voice. “You promised you’d stop getting into fights!”

Jounouchi blinked, put his hand behind his head, and chuckled again. “It wasn’t a fight! Someone shoved me because I bumped into him--”

“And it turned into a fight,” Shizuka sighed. Her brother was always such a warrior, but she always wished that someone would protect him for once. 

“Sure,” Jounouchi said curtly, he did not want to have this conversation. Instead he said, “the good news is that you get discharged tomorrow! Is mom getting you or can I come and pick you up? I was thinking it’d be nice if you and me and could go and get lunch somewhere before you go home again.”

At the thought of having lunch with her brother who she hadn’t seen in such a long time, Shizuka didn’t have time to feel worried. Jounouchi on the other hand, had something else to consider: how the hell was he going to pay her bill? It had always been that way, Shizuka’s hospital stays always consisted of mysterious fevers and numerous inconclusive tests that ultimately led to her healing on her own accord and getting discharged a week or so later. Every unnecessary test had a price tag that would eventually cost a fortune. He himself didn’t exactly need to pay the bill, but Shizuka’s mom always was tying a knot on one bill while being handed a different one. As Shizuka’s one and only brother, he wanted to do anything he could to put a stake in the cycle, then maybe Shizuka could afford something she wanted. He felt like maybe an angel had handed him the bill instead of Shizuka’s mother, but now he held a secret weight. While thinking of the bill he crammed in his back pocket before he entered the room, he reached to pat it, just to find it wasn’t there anymore. At this point, all Jounouchi could do is hope that Shizuka couldn’t sense the weariness in his smile.

-------------

“What?”

“It says here, Mr. Jounouchi, every test for Kawai Shizuka has already been paid for,” the nurse at the help desk turned the monitor to face Jounouchi, whose mouth was agape. 

“What the..” 

“There’s a note here asking the man responsible to remain anonymous, I’m afraid,” the woman continued, “but everything here is legal. The transaction is legitimate. Is there an issue with that, Mr. Jounouchi?”

Jounouchi blinked. Then blinked again. He had just approached the desk to ask for another copy of the bill so when he made it home he could plan his work schedule around school. Had someone found the bill on the ground in the hospital and paid for everything? Would someone do that out of the goodness of their heart? Was there someone waiting in the shadows to want something in exchange for the clearance? 

“You really can’t tell me the name of the man who paid the bill?” was all Jounouchi could manage to say. The nurse shook her head and turned the computer monitor back to face her. 

“Though I do believe that he was here to visit a patient. Maybe he’ll be back here again too, and you can greet and thank him face to face.”

-------------

“I’m requesting for you to get discharged tomorrow, Mokuba, I hate seeing you in a place like this,” Kaiba had his laptop out but his attention was on his little brother’s arm hidden beneath a thick cast. Broken, the doctor’s told him. Kaiba forced himself to believe that Mokuba tripped going down the stairs at school, he couldn’t control himself if he started to entertain any other thoughts on the matter. Mokuba just grinned and categorized his duel monster cards. 

“That’s fine with me! My friend is getting discharged today anyway, so it’d get boring really fast if I had to stay any longer,” Mokuba placed another monster card into the corresponding pile. Kaiba cocked his head slightly and furrowed his brows. Of course his little brother made a friend, he had that kind of power while his older brother had lived his whole life without it. Kaiba turned back to his laptop.

“Then it’s settled. You should be able to leave around 11 am, so try not to sleep in again like you did today,” Kaiba clicked away at business notes upon business notes, but he always had time for his little brother. Mokuba continued sorting his deck. There was a knock on the door. 

“Come in,” Mokuba said without looking up from his cards.

“Um, Mokuba-kun?” it was his friend from down the hall. “My brother’s just come to sign me out! I thought I’d come and say goodbye for now.” 

Mokuba turned to see Shizuka, who he’d run into in the hallway yesterday afternoon and spent the rest of the day talking to. They didn’t have much in common except the mutual need for someone’s company, so they couldn’t help but be kind to each other. From behind her, the boys inside the room could hear someone else’s voice.

“You didn’t tell me your friend was Kaiba’s little brother! I know Mokuba too!” Jounouchi entered the patient room. “Sorry for the intrusion!” He eyed Mokuba’s cast ridden arm and cocked his head.  

“Yo Mokuba, what happened to your arm?”

Mokuba cradled his arm and smiled sadly. “ I tripped on my shoelaces going down the stairs at school. I’m starting to think I inherited some unlucky genes.”

“It’s okay if you’re unlucky! Something good can come from it,” Shizuka said kindly. “My brother lost my hospital bill, but then someone else paid it for us! I heard him on the phone with Mom earlier.”

“Ah, Shizuka..” Jounouchi felt his face turn warm, she could just say something so embarrassing like it didn’t matter. And in front of a Kaiba of all people. There was a chuckle from the other side of the room. 

“I’m not sure if I would call that luck, good or bad. I’d call it carelessness,” Kaiba said, his laptop was open but he was facing Jounouchi. Jounouchi’s face went from feeling warm to a full embarrassed blush. 

“Well it doesn’t matter what it was! I’m gonna find the guy that paid it off and pay him back!” Jounouchi instinctively raised his voice around Kaiba Seto. Kabia smirked and raised an eyebrow in return. 

“You don’t say? And how do you expect to do that? By the looks of it, you don’t know who he is,” he said cooly, keeping his arms and legs crossed. Kaiba’s calm demeanor annoyed Jounouchi, and he knew that well.

“I--well...I’ll figure it out. Somehow..” Jounouchi hated it when Kaiba backed him into a corner for flawed logic. He hated even more not having the right words to say in front of him. “I have to pay him back! Unlike you, people put their hearts into every dollar they earn, and that man probably doesn’t have the time to just throw his money away on strangers! I’m going to find him and pay him back, it’s the most honorable thing I can do!” Jounouchi knew he was speaking too loud. Kaiba raised his eyebrows, but kept that smirk plastered on his face. You’re just lucky Shizuka’s in the room, Jounouchi thought to himself.

“Ah we should get going! If Mom’s expecting me home at 4…” Shizuka giggled. She thought her brother was strange to like to compete with his friends. “Mokuba-kun, get better soon, okay?”

“I will!” Mokuba smiled at everyone. His room felt even warmer than it did before.

Jounouchi gave Mokuba a goodbye and shuffled out of the room, remembering he’d promised to take his younger sister to lunch. 

“Nii-sama,” Mokuba started. His brother quietly typed away on his laptop. “Are you not going to tell him who paid the bill?” 

His brother stayed quiet.

“Mokuba, I’m working right now,” Kaiba answered. 

Mokuba sighed with a smile. Just how much longer would his brother pretend not to have respect for Jounouchi Katsuya who, for just a below average guy, continuously surprised him.

[katsukikitten]

Fireworks.

Okay so everyone has already done this scenario but I havent. So uh have some smut? Be gentle senpai this is my first time writing smut.

It isn't often you get assigned missions with the great Ground Zero sama but here you are witness to all of his glory.

Cue some major fucking sarcasm.

Ground Zero presses all of your buttons in all the wrong ways. He reminds you of all of your own flaws but amplified. Ill tempered, aggressive, assertive, and works best with a more submissive hero or *alone*.

You had watched him in the sports festival when y'all were younger obnoxious masculinity but that isn't to say he wasn't admirable. He saw strength in someone his classmates did not, he gave her a true fight and she proved she could keep up. But to see how worked up he got even after he one was a little off putting.

It's why you joined an agency half way across the country to avoid him, yet here you are! Your agency's top hero trying to get more recruits by pairing you with the number one hero in some foreign city for you both.

"Go left!" You yell as you veer right to corner this villain and what does this idiot do?

He goes fucking right as if to spite you. Your heart races so much so that you lose focus, your rage magnifying your irrational thoughts.

Thoughts you act upon as you grip the crook of his elbow swinging him back and into a wall with brute strength, pinning him.

"The villain you fucking dumbass!" He shouts, setting off a small explosion on your forearm. You do not release him, instead your eyes darken.

"He was getting away anyway because you didn't listen to me." A snarl of bared teeth as his poison apple eyes narrow. He flips you, crushing you into the brick. His breath is hot on your ear as he growls.

"Start learning how to move *with* me instead of against me, little kitten."

You shake with rage at the nickname, how fucking dare he insinuate that you are a mere house cat.

You were Tigress God damn it. You had brute strength, you were cunning, strategic and had all the reflexes of any cat. One swipe of your fist could crumble concrete, *crush bone*.

But how dare *you* react in such an odd way to his proximity. How dare your body try to arch to him as he has you pinned, how dare your body *ache* from the husky low tone of his voice.

How dare it actually like the pet name.

But again you are ill tempered and aggressive.

Disagreeable as you shove him harshly before sending a right hook his way.

Hard enough he slides half a foot away from you.

You huff as he stands looking shocked, angry eyes find yours before he rubs his cheek where a bruise begins to bloom.

"I'll pretend that didn't fucking happen." He spits blood in the opposite direction, explosions skitter across his exposed skin.

Great, how the hell were you going to explain that you STRUCK THE Bakugou Katsuki AND let the villain get away.

You groan staring up at the moon, damning yourself for not having better control.

After an hour of both self pity and loathing while you look for any trace of where the criminal at large went you finally give up.

Checking your phone to see midnight, you scroll to a text from your boss with the hotels address and as if reading your mind he sends a fresh one in.

'How's it going? Isn't he great?'

"Yea great." You growl to yourself, "so fucking great."

Finally you find the hotel a half an hour later. You approach the late night desk clerk with a smile as they beam!

"Wow first I get to see Ground Zero Sama and now you Tigress! I'm loving the new black body suit!" Your smile faulter as he speaks, Bakugou was here too?

"Yes it's me!" You push the feeling away. Of course your agency would book him a room in the same hotel. It would make more sense.

It would save money.

"Ah forgive me I'm excitable and you must be tired. Here." He beams as he slides you a single plastic card key.

"Thank you." You use the last of your energy to send a genuine smile his way before you head upstairs.

Takahashi, your boss, promised your bag would already be in your room, that he wanted you and ground zero to get to work right away.

And you did, after much arguing and yelling he had only listened to you once and that was when you said you picked up the scent of the villain.

The one you let slip through your fucking fingers.

Ugh, you just wanted to wash the day away.

You slide the key in the door until it lights green you open it to see your small book bag on the small armchair in the room. You're tired enough that it takes you a moment to notice a black and unfamiliar duffle bag on the low side table and a moment longer to see the strong figure who lies on the bed shirtless and in black sweatpants.

"WHAT THE FUCK GET OUT!" You howl and he clicks his tongue. He let's you have your tantrum as you search frantically for the old plastic phone. It's on the bed side table and you reach for it before actually seeing it is now unusable. The receiver is melted and charred.

"Already tried that Princess." He sighs lowly having plenty of time to get over the news, "Guy at the desk says this is what your agency booked. Two adults one room."

"Then get another room. I know you can afford it." His eyes slide coolly to meet your gaze before an astonished smirk crossing his lips.

"Yea I tried that too sweetheart." He spits every endearment like venom, "Hotels booked and before you say it I looked into others. All booked for the weekend since this is the Lunar festival. You know the one we were supposed to capture the villain before it starts."

You try to keep your rapid breath even but instead you find yourself crushing the entire phone your hand was resting on. It crumbles to dust as the bell rings out a final time with a dying *ding*

"Sleep on the arm chair then." You dig through your bag almost frantically. You had nothing to wear you always slept nude.

"*You* can sleep on the arm chair. I got here first." He says almost bored as he tires of his phone. He trades it for the remote and flips through channels, "Oh and I might have taken all the hot water. Since your company is this cheap I figured the hotel would be too."

You glare holes into him as you snatch the only other two items in your bag aside from your extra hero suit.

With a groan you turn the water as hot as it can go. Scrubbing away the day but not the odd feeling in your stomach.

Or the slight flush as you stare at your only two items.

Items left in your bag from the last time you planned to stay the night at your exes house.

The same night you caught the mouth of another woman on what was supposed to be yours.

You snatch the taughting items from the counter and dressed.

A tight and very short crop tank top, that had criss crossed across your breasts and very cheeky black floral laced underwear. You grit your teeth before exiting. His eyes slide to the movement in the room before they flash anger. He rises from the bed cornering you. Unbeknownst to you his heart is pounding as his eyes rove over your thicc frame.

"What the fuck are you wearing?" A low snarl as he walks you back into the wall. At first you want to reply with a shout as if you would ever wear this for him but then a devilish cat smile crosses your lips.

"This is what I wear under my hero suit. I thought it was going to be just me. Normally I sleep in naked." You flip the two of you, his back now against the wall. You lean up close noses almost touching, "But I know that you, Bakugou, wouldn't be able to handle me. I'm too rough."

He looks at you with dark eyes before he catches on to your little game.

You're being such a fucking brat.

"I know for a fact you don't wear anything under your hero suit." He calls your bluff and you startle, "For one it's too skin tight and this type of lace would definitely show through and this bralette crop top shit you have can barely contain your tits."

You swallow thickly, when was he looking at you so closely? Suddenly you feel flush, a tightness between your legs from the weight of his gaze as he takes a step forward and you take a step back. All the way until the back of your knees hit the side of the bed.

"The question is can you handle me?" A challenge rests in his eyes that you cannot ignore. You fight for dominance again as you pull him onto the bed flipping him to his back. You straddle him quickly grinding your hips against him as you kiss his mouth with such a fever, that your eyes flutter from his taste, his smell.

Why is your body acting this way to such a stubborn ass male who never listens?!

You bite his lip and he groans. The deepness of it, the sound resonates through you with a shudder you have to fight. You smirk, proud to see him fluster.

Proud to feel him hard near your core.

"Oh are you hard for me already?" You tease giving such a bratty giggle that Bakugou reacts instantly. He is up pinning your arms and stomach to the bed with his hand on the nape of your neck pushing your face into the mattress. Your breathing hitches as you realize the stance your body almost automatically takes. Face down ass up. He pushes against the small of your back shoving your whole body to the bed. He presses his whole body against you as he leans close to your ear.

"Let's see how turned on you are shall we?" He snarls and your core reacts to his voice again. His free hand travels so slowly down the curve of your spine, over the hump of your toned ass before sliding beneath the lace. Before he can even separate your folds he strikes gold. His dick twitches against your ass as he speaks.

"So wet already? Who are you wet for little kitten?" The tone of his voice makes your eyes flutter and this time your body jumps at the pet name. Still you refuse to speak.

"Ah cat got your tongue?" He asks with a dark chuckle, "It doesn't matter. I'll have you screaming my name soon enough."

He squeezes the base of your neck, keeping you pinned as he explores you. He tests with one finger before shoving two into you, finger fucking you in a steady rough pace. You're moaning into the mattress, body trying to arch up to meet him, you already feel so close and he's barely touch you. You can almost see his prideful smirk as his fingers slip out of you mid stroke, you gasp when he finds your clit, circling it with such a hard and quick pace you see stars approaching your release so quickly as your body shakes, almost at the edge he stops and you whine.

Actually fucking whine that his fingers have left you.

"Now who are you wet for?" The growl is low and primal, "Answer or you won't get to cum."

"You...Bakugou..." You grumble into the sheets, desperate to have what's probably going to be the best cum of your life.

"Its either Katsuki sama, sir, or King you got that?" A quick circle around your clit has you bucking against him nodding, "Now speak up Princess. I know you can you were just crying out moments ago."

He circles slowly waiting your answer, you hesitate. You yelp as he slaps your ass hard enough that you already feel the welt rising. Even as he rubs it what feels like lovingly.

"Brats get edged all night kitten." He snarls, "Answer or you'll regret it."

Your breathing hitches, your heart racing. No one has had you pinned like this, no one has had you moaning and twitching within a few minutes.

Not even yourself. He rubs his fingers against you furiously, the sound of your sex and moans fills the four walls egging you ever closer. He's about to stop already so familiar with your body's tell signs of release. You part your mouth quickly.

"Ahhh..You Kaa..Katsuki sama. I'm wet for you." You moan, eyes rolling back trying to arch to him but pressed down by his weight.

"Good kitten." He purrs sending you over the edge almost screaming, you cum once, twice, three times before he slows.

"I'm not done yet." He purrs kissing your hair line before flipping you over on your back, by now you've soaked through the fabric of your underwear.

He licks his lips, as he shimmies them down your powerfully thick thighs and your smooth calves. He parts your legs giving each thigh a tender kiss before a fierce bite.

You whimper from the touch. He blows lightly on your swollen clit just to watch you clench your sex. He slides in his two fingers setting his fierce pace, after a few moments you find your hands pulling at his hair.

And this is all before his tongue finds you. You're about to cum again as his fingers thrust into you hard enough your tits move but his tongue and thrusting slow. He takes hard thoughtful thrusts before they slow to a gentle come here motion within you. You twitch whining.

"Oh what's wrong?" He teases his breath feels good at your heat.

"I'm..I'm close again..." You mewil, he thrusts into you hard then and you moan out.

"Who are you addressing?" A wicked smile crosses his lips.

"You King, I'm close." You cry, literally tears collecting in your eyes from the want, the need to come undone again. The crescendo of heat is hitting harder now, no one has ever put your pleasure first, let alone make sure you came at all.

"I love seeing you squirm Y/N." And the way he says it as his pace quickens pushes you over the edge again. You let your body twitch and spasm beneath his touch as he overstimulats you. You reaching yet another impossible high, he slows, bringing you down gently.

"From now on you must ask to cum. I wanted you to cum on my lips but you keep slipping so quickly." He says reaching for your nipple giving it a tight pull. His lips find your sex again his fingers steady in and out of you as he sucks hard.

"Ka....aaaa..Katsuki sama may I cum?" You feel him nod against you and you cry out his same.

How he wants it. Katsuki sama, sir, king.

He stops slowly inching his way up to you. He kisses you, tongue swiping over yours. He flips you to your original position, you gladly press yourself against the mattress ready for this man to break your back. You can't help how your body reacts to his.

"It's my turn kitten." He growls, gripping onto your hips with almost bruising hands. He slowly slips into you, teasing you as much as himself. You both groan once he is fully sheathed. He quiets a moment and you both wonder if this is why you've been so fiery towards one another before he mercilessly pounds into you. His hips meet yours with a harsh clap, the feeling of him hitting your clit over and over has your demise waiting once more. He finds your hair pulling you hard enough that you're forced up to your hands.

"King..." You whine as you hear him groan out a yes, "May I cum?"

You hear his devilish smirk as he replied.

"When my dick is in your delectably wet pussy you never have to ask permission kitten." And you listen crying out as you feel his thrusts begin to slow. Hear his panting becoming that much more ragged.

"Where would you like me to cum?" He breathes near your ear, biting your shoulder.

"Ah." You flush in embarrassment before answering so softly, "In me, sir"

You feel him smirk against your skin before he flips you onto your back. His hand grips onto your throat tightly enough that your vision blurs just a bit. You trust him to know when to stop, he seems to know your body better than you do. But it's hard to look him in the eyes as he pounds into you. He notices another wicked grin.

"Look me in the eyes as I fuck you senseless." You look away moaning and he slows leaning close to the ear that is facing him, before he can command you you speak. A small almost sad whisper.

The last person you looked in the eyes was your ex.

"Its too...too intimate." You barely breath out. He nibbles on your ear as he speaks.

"Coming from the woman who wants me to cum in her as I fuck her raw. Guess that's not too intimate is it my little slut." He places the softest kiss on your reddening cheeks before his voice dips low, "Now look at me kitten."

You do and he kissed you tenderly yet rough before he leans up, grip tight on your throat again he pushes into one of your thighs gripping so hard you know it will bruise as his thrusts turn sloppy.

What you don't know is if he doesn't hold into your thighs he loves so much he may accidentally grip to hard with his other hand.

Between the overstimulation, the sounds of his moans, the twitching of his dick as he nears closer and the weight of his heated gaze has you cumming for what feels like the thousandth time. But this one is different as your body spasms, clenching around him as he spills his seed in you. Giving half hearted thrusts before flopping beside you on his back.

This cum has you feeling high and shaking still after. As you replay the lusty night your emotions begin to get the best of you.

Look at you letting another man use you again. Great now you're going to cry in front of the most callous person you knew. The tears threaten to spill and Katsuki notices right away pulling you tightly into his chest.

"I'm sorry kitten..ah I mean Y/N. I took it too far. You were just being so bratty and I love to watch strong women that I respect choose to submit to me." He speaks softly placing kisses all over your hair line.

You had never once heard of Bakugou Katsuki apologizing to anyone and to give you the highest compliment all in one breath. You cried then, letting all of the pent up emotion go. Of the grief you didn't have the chance to have over your last relationship, of the pressure of being the star of the agency, of maintaining your spot at number four top hero was hard.

Being a women in the hero field was even harder. You were undermined a lot, thought as a sidekick, thought as always going to submit even when you were right.

"I'm sorry." He soothes, "I won't let there be a next time."

"No that's not it! I loved what we just did more than I'd like to admit." It comes out as a wet sob. You push away to see his confused face, he wipes away your tears with the pad of his thumb.

"Then what was it kitten." You have his undivided attention. You've never seen his crimson eyes so soft before, his kissable mouth in a firm line as he listens.

"If you respect me so much then why didn't you listen to me today?" Another sob racks your body, this is rare for you to cry. You get angry with yourself but Katsuki runs his hands up your spine cooing that it's okay, after you collect yourself you give him a deadly glare and a smile comes to his face.

"That's why. I'm so mesmerized by you that I didn't want to seem weak. I never thought about how that would affect you." He kisses you with such soft passion that fireworks erupt beneath your eyes. They flutter open and struggle to go back to your deadly gaze.

"I'll listen from now on." He promises, placing a kiss on your forehead before his tone turns dark, "As long as you promise not to be too bratty."

[nox-scrie]

Shady Bussines

What do you mean it’s the 27th and I should have posted this a day earlier for the TMA5 Countdown? Sorry, I can’t hear you over the sound of recovering my senses from a senseless previous day. Anyway. This is the second day of TMA5 Countdown wow!! The fears were The Corruption and The Buried and because I love that coffin with all my heart I decided to bring it back for another round. No, this one is not corrected either and no, I’m not sorry. I hate rereading my works. It happens. Hope y’all gonna enjoy it though!!

Fears: The Corruption; The Buried brieeef mentions of The Eye

Content Warnings: Death, Paranoia, some mentions of Insects

Rating: Teen and Up Audience

Characters: Jon  “Tired of your shit before you even started talking” Sims, Martin “What even is going on” Blackwood, Jane Prentiss, some mentions of Tim “Love of my life” Stoker and Sasha “WHY WON’T YOU LET ME LOVE YOU” James; also some OCs and one of them appeared in Day 1 too!

Setting: Season 1!! a little after episode 22, with Martin’s time spent in self isolation (hah.)

Word Count: ~3670

~~~                                            Shady Bussines

Jon stepped into his office, viewing the piles of unread, unordered statements, and felt another headache forming. He was having none of the former Archivist's shit, not after last night.

There was little light in his office, and he turned off almost all the ones that were still on. The buzzing of the light bulbs was annoying what was left of Jon's sanity, and he wanted to be in the best of his mental capacity when he read a statement he has prepared, one that seemed to be related to Case #9982211.

He slowly dragged himself to his office anyway, putting on his reading glasses that were hung around his neck and tightening his tie. This was his job, and he didn't want to be fired after barely a month of being the Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute because of a pretty bad hangover.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he opened a drawer, the only fucking thing in order in this room, and got a tape recorder out. He sighed, thinking with half a mind to call Martin and ask him for a cup of tea and a Paracetamol. Hah. Good joke, Jon. Not after last night.

He took a deep breath, slowly picked up a lint from his skirt and cleared his throat. Maybe he could burry himself in statements until his headache goes away, and forget everything he has said to Tim last night. Yeah. That sounds like a good plan.

"Statement of Horace Dwayne regarding his experience with a strange coffin, Archway, London. Original statement given October 17th, 2013. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement beginns.

I knew my fiancé's job was not one of the legal kind. There was simply no way a person with no college education can make enough money as to afford as moving in together in our apartment, barely five months after we got engaged. Yet, I never mentioned it, and I think they were grateful because of that.

We first met a few years ago, on a dating app for LGBTQ+ people. It was a casual thing, we just hit each other up when we needed company, and never talked about anything in particular. Until one day, they asked me if I lived in Manchester and I said that yes, I did. They came to my place a few hours after that, rain soaked and bleeding from a wound on their torso.

That was the first time I met Morgan Doe in person, and it was me, clumsily stitching up something that looked like a kinfe wound on their side. I asked for some details, but Mo didn't tell me anything. They just thanked me for taking care of them because they couldn't go to the hospital. I remember ranting about how they should take better care of themselves, and how Mo looked at me in the eye before bending to kiss me. Or maybe I was the one bending. In that moment, though, it didn't matter: we were kissing, and after I started ignoring the wetness of their lips and how they hissed when I climbed on top of them, it was actually really good.

Mo asked me to be their boyfriend a month after that, and I said yes. We moved in my crappy, ranted apartment in Manchester, and lived there for almost a year before I asked them to marry me. I knew that we couldn't get married right away; I was between jobs at the moment, and even though I still wasn't sure what Mo actually did for a living, I knew that they will not be able to afford a wedding in a matter of months

Or that was what I thought then. One day, when I got home from a failed job interview, I found Mo in the kitchen, happily mumbling the lyrics of some song that was playing on the radio. I asked them what got them so cheery, and they just turned to face me and started dangling a set of keys in front of my eyes. Mo kissed me, and said that they managed finally get us a place for our own.

I knew that something was wrong then. I knew that something was painfully, terribly wrong, from how fast they managed to find us a place right after we got engaged, to the glint in their eyes, that mischievious glint, when they shared the news. I tried getting the information out of them, how did they actually manage to find us a place so fast, but Mo just shooshed me and said that I shouldn't worry, because they were going to give me the wedding of my dreams, and the life that I deserve.

A month after that, we were already settled in Archway, London. Apparently the apartment has been pretty cheap because of the loud neighbours, especially a woman who claimes to hear wasps in the attic. The first night we got there, I saw her in the garden of the apartment building, staring at the basement door. Her eyes were bloodshot red and she looked ill. When she turned her face straight towards me, I was too surprised to turn away. I think she smiled, but I don't remember her lifting the corners of her mouth. It felt like she was smiling, though.

I had a job now, in a shopping centre, selling vegetables. It wasn't much, but somehow we never dealt with money problems in our house. It seemed like the money never ended, in fact, and Mo told me more than once that I shouldn't be concerned about that. And I tried very hard to not be, but in the darkest of nights I still remembered that gilnt in their eyes when they showed me the key.

It was an usual evening when the coffin came. I was having my tea and reading a book that has made its appearence in my house, ignoring the weird noises the woman from upstairs, Jane something, made. There was a knock on the door, and I hoped it wasn't that creepy woman asking for some flour. I really wouldn't like to know what she did with it.

But it wasn't Jane. The two men sitting in my doorway were so tall I had to crack my neck to see their faces, obscured by some big caps. They spoke in some sort of accents, probably russian, and said they were from a delivery serivce and they had a package for Morgan Doe. Mo was not home at the moment, and chills were creeping up my back when one of them extended a clipboard for me to sign. I told them that Mo is my fiancé and that they're not home yet. The two men looked at each other, and one of them shrugged. I signed the papers and the two placed the big box in my kitchen, the first room of the apartment, and left without a word. I only assumed that the package was already paid.

I didn't know what it was, but if Mo has ordered something for the house they would have told me. I thought that maybe it was something for work, and that thought made me feel unwell. I called Mo, but they didn't pick up. I only thought they were busy, and I eyed the big box suspiciously. I went back in the living room for my tea, and I got back to the kitchen with it. It couldn't be something from work, I thought, work doesn't deliver such big packages. So I opened the box.

The shock I felt when I saw the wooden box inside, the coffin inside, made me take a step back and stumble into the table, spilling the tea. It was a coffin, an adult sized coffin, and a pretty new one from appearence. Well, except for the words "DO NOT OPEN" scribbled in the wood. That was not the strangest thing, though, but the fact that it was chained up so heavily it seemed to hold a living person, not a wooden box.

I called Mo again. And again. I was so panicked I could barely breath, and they were not picking up. I couldn't afford to leave the room or lose sight of the coffin, who did not move, speak or gave any sort of clue about its origin or its content. I noticed the key attached to the chain, and that image made me laugh. There was a coffin in my kitchen, a chained up coffin, with a key! I was going crazy.

It was almost midnight when I felt like I couldn't stay awake any longer. I took the key and placed it in my back pocket, careful not to touch the wood or the chain too much. If it was a cursed object, I didn't want to be in more contact with it than I already was. Mo still hasn't came back; they do that sometimes, leave overnight, but they always give me a heads up at least a week before. Of course the only time they left without telling me was the same night that a strange coffin, probably with a very weird thing inside, made its way to our home.

I dreamt of bugs slowly crawling their way on my skin, through my ear and inside my brain, bitting and pinching it as if it was a sponge, whispering about the hive, its importance, its puropose. It was a very unusual dream for me, but when I woke up and found out that I wasn't in my bed anymore was even stranger. I was in the kitchen, in front of the coffin, with the key in my hand. The key from my work pants, which are in the drawer.

I never sleepwalked before, and to think that out of nowhere I was not only sleepwalking, but dreaming of bugs and searhing for things in my asleep state was impossible to understand. It was the middle of the night and I took out my phone to send Mo another message, begging them to come home. I don't know how I fell asleep afterwards, but I know that the key was on the nightstand where I put it before going to bed.

Mo came back that morning, and I found them in the kitchen, their back turned to me. They were staring at the coffin, and I slowly made my way towards them, anger and relief that they were okay starting up in my stomach. But they didn't turn towards me, not as I slammed the door on my way inside. They jusy sat there, and stared. It took me only a moment to realize they were crying, and Mo has never cried as long as I know.

They turned towards me, their cheeks stained with tears, and hugged me. There was no word shared between us as we sat there, in front of the coffin, Mo crying softly on my shoulder. I think I understood them better in that morning then I did in the entire time I knew them.

Our lives for the next few days has been like that: staring at the coffin for sometimes hours on end, waiting for it to make a move, and then quietly chatting about what we did that day. We have got used to it, too. Mo placed it in our storage closet that we never even used, and it fit perfectly. Both of us tried to ignore the little tapping from inside when he touched it. I think we both convinced ourselved it was just in our imagination.

When the first rain came, it was during the nighttime. I'm a very heavy sleeper so I usually don't awake unless somebody hits me with something, but the noise from that night woke me up. Mo's side of the bed was empty, and the bedside table's drawer was open, with the key for the coffin missing. My heart skipped a beat, and I ran for the kitchen, bursting through the door.

There was a moaning coming from the storage closet, and the door was opened. As I scrambeled for the light bulb, I realized that the moaning was almost musical. When I turned the lights on, the moaning hasn't stopped, but grew even louder. The door to the wooden casket was open, the light glinting off the chains mockingly.

I took a deep breath, and started screaming for Mo. I didn't dare leave the kitchen, not with the casket open, not when I didn't know where my partner was and if they got in there. I realized they must've been the one who opened it. They might have had went there every night, and this time, with that awful moaning, was too much for them. They gave up.

I'm not sure when I fell to the ground, a mass of sobs and pained screams, covering my ears to stop the sound of moaning, but I know when a knock came at my door. I couldn't move, couldn't leave, and the person must have been so impatient they just bursted through the door. It was the two delivery man, accompanied by a guy with a very common face. I couldn't catch the man's name, too caught in the two delivery men as they closed the casket and chained it up again. The jackets they were wearing had the words "Breckon and Hope Delivery" written on the back.

The moaning only grew louder as they placed the coffin on a trolley to take it down the stairs easier. I barely managed to get on my feet and catch the other man's rain-soaked coat by the fringes of the sleeve.

"Why did you do that to them? How has Mo wronged you?" I asked, and I was not feeling angry, or empty, but rotten. As if my insides have been eaten by insects slowly and only now I can percieve the damage.

"Oh, child. They didn't do anything to me. All that happened was their own fault, their own making." at this the man stopped, gently extracted his hand from my grip, and looked around the apartment. "Nice place you've got here. I'm certain it was worth it."

I moved out the next week, when I started hearing weird insect noises. I never managed to get the door fixed, not that it mattered. The whole building burned up a few days after my departure, and I couldn't help but feel this was the perfect ending."

Jon paused for a few seconds there, thoughts flying around in his head, never focusing on just one. There was so much information here, so many points to connect. It felt like a conclussion was coming, and Jon hated that he wasn't able to see it fully because of his stupid, throbbing headache.

"Statement ends." he said, an afterthought. "Well, this is not only connected to Case #9982211, but may also be related to Case #0161203, the one of Martin's from almost a week ago. If that is true and the Jane who lives in Archway in this case is the same as the one that locked Martin in his apartment then... that would be very interesting, indeed. I should ask Sasha to make more research regarding this case. I... Recording ends."

Pressing the red button to stop the recording, Jon started scrubbing at his eyes before letting out a heavy sigh. It felt like he was caught in a web, all of these statemenets connected one way or another, with him caught right in the middle of it all and yet unable to see where they started and with whom they ended. He got up on unsteady feet and caught the edge of his desk in order to not lose balance. God. He would make his own fucking tea and get his own fucking Paracetamol-

The door to his office opened, and Martin came stumbling in. He was wiping sleep away from his eyes and masking a yawn at the same time with the back of his hand. He was also wearing one of Jon's baggy sweaters he has left in the room of the Archives Martin occupies now. The recorder turned itself on, unoticed by either of the man looking at each other.

"Oh, Gosh, Jon. God. What are you even doing here? It's not even 7 a.m. yet."

Jon didn't even try to mask the scowl on his face when he gave his snappy reply. "Some of us get to work on time, Martin."

Martin stopped wipping at his eyes, his glasses now slightly askew. Jon looked behind him and turned his hand into a fist. Why was he like this?

"Still, the Archives don't open for at least another half an hour. Jesus, Jon, I'm still in my pajamas."

"I can see that." Jon replyed, meaning to be bitter and mean, and hating the softness that managed to slip into his tone. He scowled harder in return when Martin looked down at himself and jumped.

"Ahm... I... my clothes. Are at cleaning. All of them. And you forgot this and I... meant... to give it back to you... not now I mean! But I didn't have anything else to wear and..."

"Martin. Stop making a fool of yourself. It's fine that... that sweater has a hole in it anyway."

"I sewed it." Martin said, matter of factly, his face still red and expression flustered.

"You did?" Jon asked, more surprised than anything, and when Martin started biting his lip Jon looked back at that spot above his head, that was now becoming his favourite part of the Archives.

"Yeah... It was nothing anyway and I didn't want to return it with the hole in it. Not that! Not that I am.. wearing it often or something."

"I said it's fine. The blue fits you better than it ever fitted me, anyway."

Martin looked at him in the eyes, something strong and fierce in his look, and Jon didn't turn his head this time. Neither of them said anything for a while, but then somebody coughed in the doorway and both of them jumped, the moment having vanished.

"Did we intrerrupt something?" said Sasha, sidestepping Martin and leaving some papers on Jon's desk. Tim, who was behind her, remained next to Martin and sent a big grin in Jon's direction. The scowl came back to the archivist’s features.

"No, nothing, what? Of course not. I was just... Jon, why are you holding onto the edge of the desk so tightly?"

Jon looked down at his hands and saw that they were white with effort. He stopped clenching them, and immediately started feeling dizzy once again. Sasha caught him before he could fall backwards, with an arm around his middle.

"Easy there, Jon. Are you okay?"

"Just.. feeling a little ill." Jon said, and Tim let out a bark of laughter that he quickly covered with a caugh.

"Godness, this is just awful, isn't it, Martin?" Tim said, making a show of his words and softly touching his heart with one hand. "I'm certain one of your famous teas would make him all better, don’t you think?"

Before Jon could give a snappy reply, Martin jumped slightly again, as if Tim's words just activated all of his "taking-care-of-people-via-tea" senses. He nodded eagerly and looked over to Jon, who was too tired to scowl in full force anymore.

"And a Paracetamol." Martin agreed, before leaving the office.

"He hasn't even asked me if I want some tea..." Sasha asked, more confused than offended. "What did you do to him during that staring contest, Jon?"

"What?" barked Jon, extracting himself from Sasha's hold and throwing himself on his desk chair. "I didn't do anything to him, thank you very much."

"Oh but there are so many things you'd like to do." Tim said, and anger started bubbling up in Jon's throat as he turned his eyes towards him. "You drank so much last night you can barely hold yourself up now, boss?" he asked, innocently.

"Tim, for the love of everything good on this planet, stop. This is all your fault."

"What is?" Sasha asked, confused.

"Your big crush on Martin is my fault, or the fact that you got so drunk you told me all about it is?" teased Tim, and Jon wanted to get off his chair and throw himself towards him, but didn’t.

"WHAT?" shouted Sasha, and both Jon and Tim shooshed her.

"I don't have... a crush on Martin. I just think that he's a good person, and a good person can't work in this place of horror stories and insufferable people. That would be you, Tim."

Tim laughed. "Copy that, boss. But I'm sure that if you just told him he would.."

"No. And that's final. I don't want to engage in a romantic relationship with anyone, especially not my assistants, especially when there's so much work to do here. I think I just found some important information in Prentiss' case."

"Jon... likes Martin..." mumbled Sasha, probably talking to herself. "You idiot!" she exclaimed, turning towards Jon. "He likes you too! Hell, he almost broke his legs running to make you tea. And wasn't that your sweater he was wearing, the one you lost some time ago, "my favourite article of clothing" or whatever?"

"It totally was." said Tim, ever the helpful.

"So do something about that, Jon! What are you waiting for?"

"For the two of you to get off my office and do some actual work. Leave, now."

Sasha sighed and Tim stuck out his tongue at him, telling him something about how we only have one life and we should make the most of it. As Jon drank the too-good tea Martin has made for him, he admitted to himself that Tim was right and that he really should do something about that. The more persistant thought, though, was the fact that he was never going out drinking with Tim, ever again. He did not see, nor hear when the tape record clicked itself shut back.

[sunrisespidey]

ceo!tom

pairing: tom holland x reader

summary: ceo!tom falls in love with smoothie-loving intern, y/n

word count: 5.9k im sorry 

a/n: i’m literally never writing shit like this again wtf?? the ending is so rushed and i’m rlly sorry but i got so bored of this i just wanted it out and done with. it was 14 pages on google docs bye 

it’s a different style that i usually write in, but i wanted to branch out so idk let me know what you thought about it?

PLEASE DON’T LET THIS FLOP! I WORKED ON THIS FOR LIKE A WEEK

warnings: swearing, long read, and unedited

masterlist ♡

Y/N’s made a mistake.

Or at least, that’s what she thinks, staring up at the daunting skyscraper that towered before her, with the large Holland and Co. sign glinting under the bright glare of the sun. How had she ended up here? Her, a struggling college student, and yet here she was, interning at one of the biggest business firms in England. It really didn’t add up. It’s all been a blur. She remembers getting the phone call, being told to arrive at, and she quotes, “7AM on the dot, tardiness will not be tolerated”, and it’s almost as though she’s reliving high school all over again, only this time around, her future is actually on the line.

Which is probably why she’d dragged herself out of bed at 4 in the morning, and then proceeded to spend an hour pep talking herself in the mirror. Was it too late to back out now?  She figures if she turns back and leaves, she can probably make it back to her apartment in 20 minutes flat, and then she can call in faking an illness or whatnot. After that, she can stay in, snuggled up to her cat, Dusty, and stay curled up in front of her tv with a warm mug of hot cocoa in her hands and an episode of The Office playing quietly in the background. (This, she decides, smiling internally, is her ideal day.) She’s almost ready to give in, leaning back to book it, the idea of leaving almost too enticing. Instead, she finds herself placing one foot in front of the other. Y/N doesn’t even know what motivates her to take that step forward, the step that began to lead her to those terrifying glass doors, but she’s managed to take a second step, then a third, a fourth, and—

A rush of warmth surrounds her, sending a shiver through her body, and she immediately misses the cold outdoor winds that previously nipped at her ears. Y/N doesn’t think she’s ever wanted to venture back out into the cold winter as much as she does at this moment. Her eyes stay trained on the ground, and she dreads the moment she’ll have to inevitably look up, so she doesn’t. Instead, she studies the marble floors (they’re really nice, she should consider investing in something similar, she thinks), until she hears a voice, practically coated with sugar, pipe up.

“Excuse me, Miss?” Her head whips up, swallowing nervously, and she’s greeted by a lady who looks to be in her mid-twenties with a sickly sweet smile plastered on her face (fake, no doubt, but really, who was she to judge?), head tilted in concern. “Are you lost?”

She considers saying no just to turn back around rather than face the fire, but she steels her nerves and sends her an abashed smile. “Yeah, I am. Would you mind helping me?” And Y/N nearly cringes at her attempts to be polite but continues anyways. “I’m an intern, Y/N Y/L/N?”

She isn’t really listening when the receptionist lady answers, and she knows she should’ve, but she listens to the lady drone on, the same smile that didn’t seem to reach her eyes glued to her face, and Y/N wonders what kind of toothpaste she uses to whiten. Somehow, Y/N finds herself being whisked away and up into the elevator, where she finally starts paying attention long enough to meet a kind woman who she remembers is named Nadine and would be her shadow for her time at Holland and Co.

She listens attentively (or at least she tries), as Nadine gives her a tour of the floor, and she can’t help but wish that she brought along a strawberry smoothie. She ends up so lost in thought that she nearly stumbles into Nadine after she stops abruptly, and Y/N peeks around her to see what’s happened. She’s startled when the noise reaches her ears, and she realizes that it’s a grown man backing away slowly from an office, pleading for someone to rethink their decision.

“Please, Mr. Holland, I’ll do better next time, please—” Y/N hears the slam before she sees it, yelping quietly at the shock of it, the noise still reverberating through the office. Her eyes blow wide, mouth gaping. She hopes she never comes in contact with this Mr. Holland.

Y/N finds that the tour ends quickly after that.

-

It’s not that Tom’s a cruel person.

He doesn’t jerk off to the thought of firing employees — he’s most certainly not a masochist — it’s just that he works with absolute morons. So really, what’s he supposed to do when some twat from accounting screws up some simple numbers that cost his company 10,000 pounds? (it’s not like his company can’t afford it, but the thought still makes a scowl form on his face) The only reasonable choice he can make is to fire the man, and it certainly isn’t his fault if the twit stumbles out of his office blubbering about how he’ll do better. And it definitely isn’t his fault if a cute, smoothie-loving intern witnesses the whole thing, because why does it matter if a bloody intern is afraid of him? (at least, that’s what he tries to convince himself)

(spoiler alert: it doesn’t work)

-

It’s day two, and Y/N thinks she’s made some friends.

She’s promised to bring each of them a smoothie (“They’re the light of my life,” she’d said, “can’t live without ‘em.”), which explains why she’s currently juggling four smoothies, one for herself and each of her new friends and, Sarah, Jacqueline, and Mike, while arriving at work at 6:50 in the morning. She’s so focused on carrying the drinks, eyeing each one with a careful precision that she fails to see the man donning a crisp suit (expensive. Gucci, maybe?), and a stern expression on his face, walking in front of her. She doesn’t realize that he’s been eyeing her the entire time, face softened into an unusual smile, rarely seen around the office. And she definitely doesn’t notice when he stops walking — at least, not until it was too late.

It all happens in slow motion to Y/N. She watches, helpless, as the smoothies in her hand tipped, and as Tom Holland, CEO of Holland and Co., turned around to be met with not one, nor two, nor three, but four strawberry smoothies. His mouth gapes, and hers does too, a quiet but sharp “oh fuck,” spilling from her lips. She stands, motionless, for less than a second before she’s sprung in motion, leaping for the nearest towels, endless apologies spewing from her lips.

This is it. Months of effort to even be considered for this position, and she’s fucked it up on the second day.

Y/N waits, eyes closed, preparing for the inevitable blow of being fired, the humiliation she’d face (god knows the entire floor was already staring at them wide-eyed), but to her surprise, it never comes. Instead, the towels are plucked from her hands, and her eyes snap open to be met with the prettiest face she thinks she’s ever come across, amusement flitting through their eyes.

“Don’t do that again, yeah, love?” And he’s gone, strolling away from her stunned form, so casually that Y/N wonders how he can ignore the smoothie dripping off his suit so easily. The rest of the floor stare after him as well, each of them with eyes blown wide and mouths hanging open.

-

Tom has no idea what just happened.

He’s got smoothie dripping from his suit that — mind you — was quite possibly one of his most expensive clothing investments, and he’s not even that angry about it. He isn’t really sure what had happened. He remembers looking over at the intern, Y/N, he remembers (and god, was she adorable), and then suddenly being drenched in a thick, gooey substance that suspiciously smelled like strawberries. Had it been anybody else, Tom’s sure they’d be out of his company faster than they could blink. But there was something about Y/N that captivated him, and he isn’t sure he’d be able to handle firing her over such a trivial mistake (of course, he’s fired employees over less, but he dismisses that thought). So instead, he’d strolled away as casually and as quickly as he possibly could force himself to act, trying to disguise the red blush that would’ve surely risen to his cheeks and turned his ears a bright, piercing red. His heart had pounded in his chest, so loud he wonders if Y/N had heard it, and as soon as he was out of sight, he’d darted into his office and shut the door.

His heart is still pounding in his chest, and he has no idea how some intern he’s never even said more than three sentences to can have such an impact on him. (Tom almost considers turning to Harrison for advice, but he would prefer not to be called a sap for the rest of his life) So, he strips himself of his smoothie-soaked suit jacket and prays to avoid any future interaction with Y/N.

-

Of course, Tom’s wish refused to come true, because the next morning, walking into the building, he bumps into her again.

Well, not literally. He’s strolling leisurely into the warm building, shooting a tight-lipped smile to the receptionist who always seemed to be showing a ridiculous amount of cleavage whenever he came around when he hears his name being called and the sound of approaching footsteps. Turning around, he crosses his fingers desperately, hoping that it was some other employee — preferably one that didn’t make his heart skip a beat at the mere thought of them.

But he’s still met with the sight of Y/N running through the doors of the building, regardless of his desperate wishes. It only takes a few seconds for her to catch up to his still figure, and when she does, she bends over, panting with her hands resting on her knees.

“Holy fu— sorry, language. M’so out of shape,” Y/N heaves, straightening up and wiping at her head, “you’re so fast, wow—” Tom finds himself unable to respond, head dizzy from her presence. He’s pretty sure if she knew he was taking such deep breaths because she smelled so oddly intoxicating, she’d call him a creep and run away and never speak to him ever again. He thinks she smells like vanilla, which is so common that he wonders how she can make it work so well, and—

“Mr. Holland?” Y/N’s hand waves in front of his face, and Tom snaps out of his daydream to muster up a charming smile for her. “Were you listening?”

Tom hums, nodding his head to show he was interested — a common courtesy. She shot him a suspicious glance but returned his smile nonetheless. “Well,” she started, clapping her hands together, “I brought you something — to say sorry for spilling my smoothies on you yesterday.” Tom doesn’t really know what to expect, but as she reaches into her purse, he’s definitely not expecting her to pull out a small pastry wrapped in a Greggs wrapper, neatly folded into a small rectangle.

“It’s a sausage roll,” Y/N explains, pushing it into his hands, “from Greggs. I just love their sausage rolls, and I just passed one as I was pulling into work, so I thought I’d buy you one as an apology.” At this point, he’s working overtime to not consciously drool over the sausage roll in his hands, because he’s sure that Y/N would run for the hills if she saw him so unprofessional.

So, he musters up a polite nod, a smile, and a: “Thank you, love.” And she takes that as her cue to scurry off, with a wave to the receptionist who’s not so inconspicuously scowling at her, and she’s out of Tom’s sight.

He stares after her until she’s completely out of his sight, and when she’s gone, he breathes a sigh of relief.

He’s got an issue on his hands.

---

When Y/N tells her new friends about the traumatic incident that had occurred the previous day, she finds that they’ve taken to staring at her in awe, because holy shit, you’ve spilt four smoothies on the most temperamental CEO in the business and yet you’re still here. (how reassuring. mind the sarcasm.)

“Are you joking?” Mike stares at Y/N, mouth open so wide that Y/N’s curious if his jaw is achy yet. “If that were me, I would’ve been fired quicker than I could’ve said sorry. And he called you ‘love’ too? Man, you’ve got him wrapped around your little pinky finger.” (Y/N’s sure they’re just saying this to make her feel better — after all, it’s not every day you spill four smoothies on a multi-millionaire CEO)

“I bet Mr. Holland’s got the hots for you,” Sarah whispers, turning her head to make sure nobody important is in earshot (because anything can set Mr. Holland off, really), “you could probably bust up all of his cars and he’d smile at you, babe.”

“Yeah,” Jacqueline butts in, and Y/N sends her a frown because this entire time they’d been talking, Jacqueline had been quietly filing papers (or at least that’s what Y/N thought), only to realize she’d actually been listening in the entire time, “Mr. Holland likes you— like, like likes you.”

Y/N snorts, sending Jacqueline an unamused stare. “What is this, middle school? M’sure he’s just being nice, s’all.”

Sarah scoffs, raising her eyebrows disbelievingly. “Yeah, right, and I’m a millionaire,” she jokes sarcastically, glancing at Y/N with a lopsided grin on her face. “Trust me. Mr. Holland is anything but nice.”

But Y/N can’t seem to believe that. Surely, he wasn’t that horrible, right?

-

Days pass and Tom hasn’t seen Y/N in a while, and although he has to admit that popping out a stiffy in the middle of a business proposal at the thought of her isn’t the most enticing, he’s starting to miss her. (of course, the only interaction he’s truly had with her is the disaster that cost him a fortune at the dry cleaners, but he still admires her from afar in the least stalker-y way possible)

Most employees would find it beneficial to have the least contact with Tom as possible. It’s been a bit of a known fact that when called into his office, chances are, they’d be leaving with their belongings in a box. So when Nadine, her supervisor, tells Y/N that he’d like to see her in his office, (and in a very loud tone, at that, so now she’s got the whole office staring after her as she shamefully trudges to Tom’s office) she’s quite terrified. She’d only heard horror stories about what went on in his office, and she’s really come to love the company and crosses her fingers and toes that he isn’t going to terminate her internship. (maybe, Y/N thinks, Tom changed his mind about the smoothie incident. Or even worse, he hated the sausage rolls)

So needless to say, Y/N is just about ready to piss herself pushing open the door to his office, because she remembers what happened on her first day and she has no desire to receive the same treatment. As soon as she sees Tom, sitting in his office chair sorting a few papers, she’s already immediately blurting out a plea.

“If you’re going to fire me, please just make it quick.” Tom’s face twists into one of confusion, and he chuckles. (my god, was she dense.)

“Fire you?” He laughed, placing the papers to the side. “The opposite, actually. When your internship finishes, I was going to offer you a permanent job here at Holland and Co. Unless you don’t want it?” The grin that he offers her is so cheeky that Y/N considers saying no just to wipe the smile off his face for scaring the shit out of her like that, but she isn’t nearly rich or petty enough to refuse such a huge proposal. So instead, she nods eagerly, holding in a squeal that threatens to burst out of her throat, and thanks him profusely. What Tom doesn’t expect is for her to pull him into a tight hug, and he’s floored. (he realizes that he really enjoys her hugs.) When she’s pulled back, her face has contorted into one of embarrassment, and she mumbles an awkward apology before she escorts herself out of the door.

(Tom’s grateful, because maybe then, she wouldn’t have seen the blush that tinted his tan cheeks a rosy red.)

-

Tom has a problem.

He’s found that he’s got a crush on one of his company’s interns, Y/N. A real, massive, red-faced, crush on her. In fact, he’s found himself looking forward to seeing her when he can — even though he only sees her a handful of times in a month — and yet, he feels an oddly joyful twisting in his gut when she directs that brilliant smile of hers towards him. He’s realized that she’s weaseled her way into his heart and life, and truth be told, he really has no problem with it. Even embraces it, at that.

So yes, he’s got a problem.

-

Tom is absolutely fucking exhausted.

He’s just about ready to go home, make himself a cuppa, and crash in his obnoxiously soft bed. He’s sure that the company is empty by now because it’s well over the time they get dismissed, so he stumbles out of his office before closing and locking the door. Tom scans the room a final time, ready to leave, but his eyes catch a dim light left on in the back, and he rolls his eyes to go check, annoyed at whichever wanker decided to leave the lights on before they left. So he’s certainly caught off guard when he comes across Y/N tapping away at her computer, sat in her little cubicle.

“Y/N?” Tom asks cautiously, brows furrowed. He has no idea what she’s still doing here, especially since she was supposed to leave at five and the sky outside has already darkened drastically.

“Holy fucking shit—” she screeches, her arms jerking up to cover her mouth, “oh my God, Mr. Holland, you scared the shit outta me.” He finds it quite adorable that she’s sitting there, eyes wide, a hand placed on her heaving chest.

“What’re you still doing here?” Tom questions, because he hasn’t known a single person who would stay past the time they were supposed to return home, and he wasn’t expecting an intern of all people to do so at all.

“I was gonna leave soon, promise, s’just that I almost had this done, so I just wanted to stay to finish it.” Tom nods thoughtfully, switching his briefcase from his right hand to his left, and beckons her to follow him to the parking garage.

“Well come on then, I’ll walk you to your car.” And although Y/N appreciates the thought, (a foolish one, to be honest, because what university student can afford a bloody car?) she shakes her head.

“Well, I was just planning on walking home, because it’s not too far, y’know, and—“

“No way you’re walking home at — 9 at night!” Tom scoffs, checking his watch. He’s gotten way too attached to her to let her put herself in any sort of danger, so he proposes the only idea he could think of in the spur of the moment— “I’ll drive you home, darling.”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that, Mr. Holland,” she protests, shaking her head wildly, “besides, I’m sure it’s not even on the route, so—“ He interrupts her yet again, (a repeating occurrence, she realizes) shaking his head.

“Nonsense. Come on, now. The sooner we get you back, the better.” And with that, Y/N watches him turn around, followed by her trailing behind him like some sort of lost puppy.

It’s not long until they arrive in the parking garage, but Y/N sees a stunning Rolls Royce and gushes over it internally. She’s ready to pass it by, wave goodbye at it, (call her dramatic, but it isn’t every day you can admire a sleek red Rolls Royce in person) but instead, they stop in front of it.

Y/N, who experiences an odd sense of deja vu, crashes into his sturdy back in response. Tom raises an eyebrow, amused, and shoots his hand out to steady her. “Thank god you didn’t have any smoothies this time, hm?” Y/N watches as he moves to the driver’s seat, opening the door, but pauses when he catches sight of her frozen figure.

“What’s the matter, love?” He grins, his hand resting lazily on the open door. Y/N stays where she stood, too terrified to even approach the vehicle (because let’s be real, if she fucked anything up, she’d have to sell every single one of her internal organs to pay it back).

“Oh—Oh fuck— sorry, but shit, Mr. Holland, there’s no way you can expect me to get in that car,” she swallows, backing up slightly, “that’s gotta cost more than I would if I sold myself on the black market.”

Tom simply chuckles, and Y/N’s heart sort of bursts at the sound since it’d been her first time hearing the joyous sound. He ducks his head to crawl into the luxurious car with a simple, “Alright, doll, just get in,” and she practically scrambles to the passenger seat. (as reluctant as she was, she wasn’t thrilled to walk the long trek home in the slightest.)

She’s barely halfway inside the car before she’s already cramping herself to occupy a smaller area of space despite the spacious interior. Tom notices at the same time, tilting his head as he watches her cautiously press the seatbelt into its buckle as if she’d shatter the buckle with too much pressure.

“You look like I‘ve just forced you into an airtight box, love.” He mutters casually, placing a hand on the back of her seat to reverse out of the garage, “Loosen up for me, alright? Where am I dropping you off?”

She gives him an address, and he programs it into his phone. “Well, look at that, darling, you’re right on my route home.” (he’s lying, but she really doesn’t need to know that they essentially live on opposing sides of London, because the last thing he wants her to do is to leave and walk home) He can see her exhale a sigh of relief and grin, and that alone is enough for Tom not to feel an ounce of regret about his choice.

-

In hindsight, this was a great idea.

Now, Tom’s not too sure, because she’s got the radio on now, and she’s singing like nobody’s there and it makes Tom’s heart grow three sizes too big. If he’s being honest with himself, he’s starting to fall for her, further than any point of return, and if anyone saw them in that car in that very moment, they’d see him staring at her with the softest gaze anyone had ever seen on the seemingly apathetic CEO in a long time.

It’s when they approach Y/N’s apartment building that something happens. Y/N whispers out a thank you, and she’s almost out of his car, that Tom catches a glimpse of her phone wedged in the cup holders, and he reaches out for her wrist, calling out for her to wait. He doesn’t expect her to unceremoniously tumble back into his car and lap with a squawk from the sudden tug on her wrist.

“S—Sorry!” Tom yelps, a flush crawling up his neck, and it’s then that he realizes how close their faces were. If he were to lean down in the slightest, their lips would meet and— “Your phone! You forgot your phone!”

Y/N never really had the ability to think rationally in unforeseen situations. Which is maybe why she can’t help but lean up and press a quick kiss to his lips, stunning into silence, but it’s not even her fault, truthfully! (it is, but she tries to give herself the benefit of the doubt) She’d never seen him so uncomposed and flustered, and it was honestly the most adorable thing she’d ever seen.

Her eyes blink at her sudden bold attitude, and then she’s scrambling out the car, maneuvering herself in a way that she wouldn’t headbutt Tom, and she’s gone, running into the building with a loud stuttered “sorry!” Tom loses sight of her, still staring after her, dazed, one singular thought running through his head.

Holy fuck.

-

Tom calls Harrison as soon as he gets home. Harrison arrives in ten minutes flat. (“God, you’re such a drama queen. I’m on my way.”)

“C’mon, mate, don’t just stand there and call me a sap, what do I do?” Tom groans, throwing a toy to Tessa who lay on the couch beside his body, staring at him with a peculiarly knowing look, and Tom groans again because even his damn dog knew about his dilemma.

“She probably likes you, you div,” Harrison grins, raising his voice to imitate Y/N. “Mr. Holland is just… so hot! I dream about kissing him every night!”

“Oi, come off it, you dickhead, she doesn’t even sound like that,” Tom mutters, shoving Harrison to the side. “Probably didn’t even mean shit to her, just like, a friendly kiss or summat.” Tom knows it was more than that. If the amorous gazes and gestures were anything to go by, it would be easy to mistake them as head over heels for one other (unfortunately for them, it’s not exactly a mistake to assume they’re goners for each other, because it’s absolutely true).

Harrison shoots him a look. “Yeah, mate, I kiss all my friends too. S’just a normal friend thing, innit? Now c’mon, gimme a nice smooch.” Harrison teases, puckering his lips to make obnoxious smacking noises towards Tom. He’s met with a pillow to the face, and he laughs, throwing his head back. “You’re so whipped, mate.”

Maybe just a little, Tom thinks.

-

The next morning, Tom’s prepared to man up and do something about his hopeless crush on Y/N. He’s got his entire speech planned out, in fact.

He’ll start it off by handing her a muffin. Chocolate chip, to be specific. And then, he’ll woo her with a romantic speech, as follows: “Y/N, I think I’ve liked you ever since you spilled those drinks on me. I’ve been wanting to ask you to dinner for a while now, and the kiss we shared last night was amazing. So, will you go out with me?” (it sounds better in his head, it really does)

But none of that happens, because when he catches her eye, he beelines for her and they both let out a rush of words at once.

“I brought you something—“

“Last night was a mistake—“

Tom stops, mouth drying at her words. “Sorry, what?”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Holland, that was so unprofessional of me to kiss you. We can just forget it ever happened if that’s alright.” And Tom’s mouth snaps shut, his hopeful words dying on his tongue before they could escape. Y/N stood in front of him, wringing her hands, a smoothie by her side. “I brought you a smoothie to apologize — you seemed like a Berry Blast kind of guy. Hope that’s alright.” She hands him the smoothie, unaware of Tom’s internal battle because damn it all to hell, he so desperately wanted that kiss to mean something to her and no, he never wanted to forget about it. He sends her a pained, restrained smile, accepting the smoothie she holds as a peace offering and tries to retreat to his office.

“Wait, Mr. Holland!” Y/N cries out, running to tap his shoulder, “What were you saying? I cut you off earlier.”

Tom carefully hides the chocolate chip muffin behind his back, shaking his head. “It was nothing, you took the words right out of my mouth.” Tom laughs, and yet the sound is so forced it almost makes him wince. Y/N’s smile drops for the slightest moment before it’s up on her face again.

“Oh, alright then!” She smiles, waving her hand towards him, “Have a nice day then!”

Tom decides he most certainly will not.

-

“You guys are such bloody wankers!” Y/N cries as soon as she reaches her cubicle, “Y’said he liked me! And just now, he told me that he wanted to forget about the kiss too. God, I’m so humiliated! I might as well just go on and die from humiliation now—“

“Okay, babe, chill,” Sarah tries, but to no avail.

“—I can see the headlines already! ‘Intern kisses boss, gets rejected and dies.’ Fuckin’ hell—“ Y/N’s mini-rant is cut off by Sarah’s hand coming to clamp over her mouth, muffling any sound, but quickly yanks her hand back at the feeling of Y/N’s tongue licking a stripe across her palm.

“I’m sure everything’ll be fine, no harm done. He’ll forget about it in two days flat, promise.” Sarah reassures her, patting her back awkwardly.

-

“For fuck’s sake, mate,” Tom grumbles, head in his hands, “you said she was into me!” Tom’s in shambles because as far as he knows, he’s just humiliated himself in front of the girl he’s taken a liking to.

Harrison laughs at his distressed state teasingly, tossing a pen in the air and catching it to cease his boredom. “M’sure she was just doing what she thought you’d want — hope you realize you aren’t the most approachable guy.”

“Fuck off, you div,” Tom mutters, tossing a highlighter at Harrison’s head, “I resent that, mate.”

-

The next time Tom interacts with her, it’s not for at least a month. (he needed the time to shake off his humiliation.)

It’s so similar to the previous time that it makes Tom’s heart clench at the memory of her soft lips on his. This time though, it’s because the weather outside was pouring buckets that flooded the streets and soaked everything in contact. So it’s not even a question of ‘maybe’ before Tom’s already insisting on driving her home.

“Love, there’s no way in hell that I’m letting you walk through that rain,” Tom tells her, already pulling on his jacket. “Now c’mon, what kind of boss would I be if I didn’t drive you home?”

Y/N reluctantly agrees, shutting down her computer and picking her purse up from under her desk. “Alright. But you’ve got to promise me that I’m not a bother, Mr. Holland.”

“Never,” Tom promises, placing a hand on her arm to gently guide her to the exit. “D’you want me to pull the car up? I know it’s raining pretty hard out there, don’t want you to get wet or summat.” He picks up on his unintentional innuendo too late, his cheeks and ears flushing a thorough red blush. “Not—not like that, I mean like—”

“No, no, it’s alright, I can survive a little rain.” Tom’s never been more grateful for Y/N ignoring his slip-up, because he’s sure that if she’d acknowledged it, Tom would’ve stayed red for the next century or so. (get it together, he tells himself, she’s just a girl, and you’re not a virgin, you moron,)

The drive to her place is quiet apart from her loud singing, but the real dilemma comes when they pull up to the door.

“For fuck’s sake, I—ugh.” Y/N groans, hand leaving her purse dejectedly. “I’ve locked myself out. Don’t even have a spare key.” Tom’s headgears are already turning before she can finish her sentence. “S’alright, I’ll just call my landlord and sleep with a neighbour or something.”

“Why don’t you come sleep at my house?” Tom offers, and Y/N is quick to refuse, insisting that she’s already a bother, and she wouldn’t force him to deal with her presence any longer. “I already promised you weren’t a bother, darling.”

When Y/N buckles up her seatbelt again, she’s expecting Tom to just continue down the road, but instead he makes a swift u-turn and drives back down the same road the came from.

“Mr. Holland! You told me my apartment was on route to yours — why’ve we turned ‘round?” She gapes, head spinning to look back through the window towards her flat. Tom gives her a cheeky shrug, flicking his windshield wipers to a higher speed as the rain came down harder and obstructed his view of the road.

“Must’ve slipped my mind,” he mutters, sending her a smile. “Plus, that’s Tom to you outside of work — Mr. Holland is my dad, love.”

-

Tom doesn’t know how he’s gotten into this position.

He’s got Y/N in his arms, sound asleep, wearing his shirt, sleeping on his bare chest, and his mind is still hazy from the kisses they shared that night. He remembers how they walked into his penthouse, and Y/N had gushed over everything inside, (“holy shit, Mr—Tom, you have a fucking fluffy bath mat? I’ve always wanted one!”) and awed over his dog Tessa, (“ohmigod, you have a bloody dog too? You’re like… the perfect man!” and Tom has to admit that he took this in a different way, because he would love to be Y/N’s perfect man.) Tom had set up his Netflix for her to browse as he prepared them both a warm cuppa, and he’d returned to see Y/N and Tessa cuddled up in a blanket he’d brought for her. The sight tightened his chest, and really, everything from there is a blur.

The main part that he remembers is that they kissed. (and oh, did they kiss)

“You’ve driven me bloody insane, darling,” Tom admitted, pulling her in for a kiss that frazzled her nerves and curled her toes. Y/N’d pulled away, gasping for air, and Tom trailed light kisses down the length of her neck, his arms wrapping themselves around her waist.

“What’re we doing, Tom?” She’d asked between kisses that he’d pressed to her face.

“What I’ve been wanting for a long while, love.”

And here he was, her head heavy on his chest, nose tucked into the crook of his neck, and Tom’s never felt more at peace. Y/N blinks awake, yawning softly and blinking blearily before she readjusts herself, pulling her body to lay on top of his.

“You’re my… my pillow now, m’kay?” She murmurs, reaching up to press a kiss to his jaw.

Tom smiles, tightening his hold on the sleepy girl, humming. He’s pushing her hair back to kiss her forehead, and Tom decides that he’s never been happier.

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[curlyshyy]

New Apartment and the same anxious energy with a while lotta guilt and regret :) (A short story by me)

I love that when I’m too lazy and sad to pull out a journal I can come on here cuz no one looks at this shit. Why do I event still have a tumblr?

The last two nights have been rough for me, as I think new happy events trigger my brain into being sad and hating myself? Of course it’s nights where I’ve had to open the bar at 9 AM the next morning. I suppose that’s the first reason I hadn’t been able to sleep. I hate my job low-key. I once loved Alamo Drafthouse. Adored it even. Then moved to this shit hole in Norrh Richland Hills which is the furthest from the Alamo way, and I’m not valued. I feel like a fuck up everyday. In a lot of ways I am. I’m functioning with severe anxiety and most people don’t know or understand. I do stupid things when I’m having a panic attack, and these managers judge me hard. But here’s the thing I know in my heart, even when I hate myself, I’m a good worker, I’m kind, and will do anything for my coworkers and will eventually get really good at this job.im dedicated to say the least. I think that’s what matters most but for now they just see me as a fuck up, slow learner. I work my ass off though and they don’t see it. If I could work every second of everyday. Ifthis shit hole wasn’t trying to cut everyone’s hours cuz they’re not making any money, i’d work myself into physical exhaustion, like I’m so good at doing. Thats the only thing I can feel. It’s my only escape and I hate being there. This is a little dramatic. My life has been improving, and yes I know I need therapy. We been knew. My ass was anxious at 5 years old. Anxiety is truly hell, I wish I’d just force myself to hurry up and get help, and I wish I wasn’t poor. I wish my mom had saw how fucked I was and made me get help as a kid, but she did the best she could. Could blame the bitch but like, she has a hard enough time accepting and coping with her own mental illness. She hardly acknowledges it. That must be hard to lie to yourself everyday, and say that you just have to choose happiness.

The reason the last two nights have been shit is cuz I stayed up dreading going to work and being there all day and I hate the fuck out of mornings and waking up before noon. Which is why I like closing and usually have night shifts. Since the fucks cut my hours I gotta take what I can get though. I need a constant distraction at night cuz my brain is literally scary as fuck. I can’t even tell anyone about 95% of it. It’s so terrifying. So I usually distract myself with my phone. But I was like “hey, brain I know we’re anxious af and sad, but can we go to sleep?” To which my brain replied : “Remember this event from two years ago? Haha you’re a terrible person.” Then my body physically stiffend, I felt physically ill and my head ached and all I could do was think about past mistakes and everything that makes me a failure and bad person. Typical manageable anxiety for me at this fucking point, I’m just not gonna be able to sleep and I know it. Then I remember an old friend, I used to work with at Chili’s. Javi. Literally one of the very slim parts of the things that I don’t block out and cringe hard about when it comes to chili’s, are our times together. I block that shit hard. I mean just thinking about me in this time frame is enough to make me believe I’m terrible. I wasn’t right. I regret literally everything about chili’s. That place is a nightmare and probably what hell is going to look like when I arrive. anyways god damn. Javi is this sweet kind angel. We were all struggling at this mother fucking chili’s let me tell you. My dumb ass had just come back from vid con (2017) How did I afford that? I spent my rent money. Also I couldn’t afford to eat for like a week. But YouTube was and still is the only thing in this world that makes my brain feel calm. It’s a safe place for me. And I was dumb as shit. Anyway my dumb ass was already starving before Vidcon and could barely afford rent. :) cuz chili’s doesn’t pay well. So I was real fucked when rent came up and literally considered myself lucky when I found a packet of cheezits lying around, cuz that was a good meal to me at the time. I guess I’m telling my coworkers this and busting my ass all night bussing peoples tables and helping out as a hostess which of course paid jack shit. And I know I’m about to go home fucked another night, and Javi, pulls out the $165 dollars he made that night, and hands it to me. The boy had bills, and worked all night too. Who would ever be so kind-hearted to do such a thing. I of course refused, cuz what the fuck. He insisted. I said I was going to cry and he said “aw don’t cry Sheyenne, or I’ll cry too.” And hugged me. I was also super numb and depressed and wanted to be with Hannah so much, and honestly I don’t feel like I was my best self. I look at that person and I don’t feel like it was me. But I used it to pay rent. Still wasn’t eating and he even bought me food one day. Literal angel. I don’t know or remember if I expressed enough gratefulness. I don’t know if I was capable of expressing it. A couple months later he’s about to move to Idaho, and we have a goodbye dinner, and I figure this is a good time to repay him. I give him $100 which is all I could really do at the time, and try to tell him I think he’s one of the best people I’ve ever met. He leaves, and I think we only ever talked one time after that, and I offered to buy him pizZa but never did for some reason? We never really talked again. I alwyas momentarily remember him, but I really have chili’s and the person I was in 2017 so far blocked that I really can’t remember that shit. It’s so hazy. There isn’t a full day I can remember. Just tiny bits and pieces. For some reason two nights ago I remembered him vividly. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I felt panic and guilty as fuck. Paralyizying guilt. I felt like I should never deserve to enjoy anything ever again in my entire life. I felt terrible. I felt like if he ever struggled to make it or eat, then I should’ve been there for him. I stalked his fb, cuz I needed to know he was okay.

He doesn’t use social media too much. His mom however posts about him a lot. Which confused me because I know they have a strained relationship, and he could have a lot of help from his mom, but I think he resented the help, because they didn’t always get along? I don’t know how fucked she was to him though. What fb told me was she paid for him to come every few months. He has a new girlfriend that he seems very happy with, he seems happy in general. He’s smiling in pics. But that’s social media. At best pictures his moms posting. I felt like I needed to know or I was going to have a breakdown. I don’t have his phone number for some reason, so I snapped him a long message. Usually I’d feel crazy to reach out especially when we Weren’t that close but I just needed to. I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t sleep. Then opened at work. The shake machine of course was fucked and I had to put it back together correctly only after shake mix poured everywhere. That’s just my life. Me doing something out of panic, and then having to redo it after looking like a dumb bitch. I truly learn from fucking up. I’m wired so fucking wrong. He finally responds once I’m off work. I read it. It’s not what I need to hear but it’s decent, and proves he doesn’t hate me. He tells me he’s good, but working at Taco Bell, and I know he’s still struggling which makes me sad, but I guess I’ve been struggling to, so I shouldn’t hold myself accountable for not reaching out. I’ve been so poor, and me and Hannah are just now catching up, and taking a breather after 2 years of struggling. I let my mind rest though because he’s alive and he’s eating and has a girlfriend and family who are looking out for him. Until the next night when I should be exhausted from no sleep. The guilt starts eating away at me again. I feel like I shoukdve sent him more money,but after a while I stopped thinking about it because of all that I was going through and that made me feel selfish. I felt that I owed him for my entire life. Maybe I blocked out how much he and his kinda gesture meant to me because anything regarding chili’s, is so far removed, and maybe that super vivid memory, is what I needed to remind me. I’ve also been struggling heavily with my mental health and off and on numb most of the time, so it is possible that I wasn’t as grateful as I could’ve been or at least didn’t properly show gratefulness. So I once again reached out and also sent $20. I really went for it this time. I said I literally need to know you’re okay and happy, and for you to know how special you are and sorry if this sounds crazy dog. Like I must’ve seemed fucking insane but I needed him to know. I don’t know why it was physically paining me so much. Maybe because of all the roommates and so called friends who disappeared without paying rent and left me fucked with no second thought of how I’d eat tomorrow. I just couldn’t bare to think that, He was out there roughing it, maybe Skiping a meal, (like Hannah and I’ve had to so so many times thanks to people who literally could give a fuck less.) After he was there when I needed help. He ended up telling me he didn’t need money, and that he did what he did because he was my fiend, and he even apologized that I didn’t have any friends at the time that would’ve helped me the way he did. He apologized. He told me that I deserved it. That really calmed me. I guess I forgot the good that I did because I just remember the bad. I guess I didn’t think about the positive effects I had on him. That I must’ve done something right for someone to care so deeply that they just handed me that kind of money, after a long shift. He saw that, and maybe he felt he owed me in a weird way. I still feel like I owe him. I wish I’d talked to him sooner. Genuinely good people are hard to find. Who tf would do what he did? Seriously. I am so glad I reached out though.

It worries me though. How small past events can trigger me so hard. It’s a snowball effect. Anxious about work, life, who I am, past mistakes, and it’s paralyzing and hurts my entire body and keeps me from sleep and makes me feel undeserving of a good life or any enjoyment. I really need to get help because it’s getting to an unmanageable point, like it was after I graduated 3 years ago. It scares me that so many past memories are blocked expect for bad ones and bits and pieces. It scares me that, there has never been a completely care free 100% happy period of my life, that lasted longer than a couple days, and now as an adult it’s an even shorter amount of time. Genuine happiness is rare and make men feel pointless. I’m empty most of the time and want things and have the capacity to work hard and achieve them but also feel that I don’t deserve them. I am capable of happiness and some days, I do feel genuinely happy even if it doesn’t last the whole day. My family and Hannah still have a lasting impact on me and even when I’m an unfeeling zombie, I still know love, and numbness makes it hard to feel but somehow not entirely impossible. Little bits of light get through the cracks, and in some ways I’ve gotten better at managing my brain, and I truly don’t want to die or think I deserve to like I once did. The guilt attacks and fears of being bad, and some how accidentally hurting someone emotionally or physically, still fuck my head up because I could never hurt anyone intentionally and feel guilt for any small pains caused alwyas. I wish I could take back many wrong words and hurtful actions done and said to loved ones, but I can’t but it’s okay because they forgive me, so I can forgive myself too. I have to let go of the past.

This really creeped in again because I started to feel excited about a fresh start and our apartment. My brain tries to tell me I don’t deserve it. I deserve to decorate with Hannah, and to allow myself happiness so that I can be happy and enjoy life and be a better girlfriend. I also need to get a new job that doesn’t make me feel like the scum of the earth.

A part from that all I’m feeling a lot better. I’m off tomorrow. I watched Phil’s new video and it made me feel hopeful, proud and nostalgic. YouTube and the youtubers that have been the stand ins for the lack of friends, have comforted me, inspired me, and put my brain to rest, and assured me I’m not as weird and alone as I think I am. That’s why I want to do YouTube. It’s a tough though. Editing takes a lot of time and I want to make things I’m proud of. I want to make music even though I’m bit a musician, I want to keep writing and actually read again like free 12 year old me did. I read and wrote so much then. I want to be that me again. I want to reach other people and help them feel less alone, I want to make a difference and I want to not feel like a failure. I just need to get past all of this guilt and I really think this is the start of that, and my journey to creating.

[jovialyouthmusic]

The ABC of Love by Cora-Nova

Original ABC for OTPs

created by @cora-nova

OTP pairing - Drake Walker and OC Princess/Queen Charlotte of Cordonia

Romantic ABC of Drake and Charlotte

A – Anniversaries. They have many – when they shared s’mores, their first kiss, first assignation – but the one they like to celebrate every year is the time at Applewood when Charlotte forgave Drake for being an ass and realising that she could choose him as her consort.

B – Beliefs. Drake is more of a humanist and that you should make use of the life you have. Charlotte is romantic and believes in fate and reincarnation. Drake laughs at this and says he’ll come back as a peacock and chase Maxwell through the grounds of Beaumont Manor.

C – Collectables. Charlotte collects mementoes such as a flower from every bouquet Drake has ever given her – which doesn’t amount to many as he’s not really into flowers – a lock of her mother’s hair, a pen that belonged to her father, and of course the cartridge on a chain that Drake gave her that was left over from his first shooting lesson with his father. Drake collects whiskey, though he doesn’t drink it very often since they got married.

D – Drinks and food. Growing up in the Royal Palace and travelling the world on many State visits, Charlotte has sampled many dishes from all over the world, but her favourite thing is to order pizza and eat it with Drake in his room high up in a turret that he occupied as a young man. Drake likes anything that doesn’t need cutlery to consume. Except for sushi…

E – Exercise. They both love riding, and regularly go out on Sultan and Phoenix. They first bonded over horses when they met at the age of eight. Drake practices Ju Jitsu and Karate, and Charlotte does Tai Chi and Yoga. They often try out each other’s disciplines, and Drake cannot work out how Charlotte’s Tai Chi can often overcome his karate moves.

F – First. So many firsts to choose from! Drake is especially proud of their first dance at their wedding reception, as he managed not to tread on Charlotte’s toes or bump into anyone. Charlotte remembers their first time in the gardener’s hut with fondness, when Drake first ‘made her feel like a woman’ without compromising her virginity.

G – Gold. Well, being Queen and Consort means they don’t have to worry about money – but Charlotte does, as she is responsible for the wealth and wellbeing of a whole country. Drake has never really wanted much and doesn’t worry about it, before he became consort his  attitude was if he couldn’t afford it he could do without it. Now he’s a kept man he doesn’t make extravagant demands and always budgets scrupulously when making alterations at the Manor at Valtoria.

H – Home. Cordonia is the only home Charlotte has ever had, and Drake can barely remember the ranch in Texas where he grew up before moving when he was eight. As the Royal Couple they have many homes – The Palace, a wing at Applewood, Valtoria Manor. But home is simply where the other one is.

I – Issues. The only issues they have with each other involve other people. Charlotte’s judgement of Kiara was pretty spot on, as when she had the opportunity to do so, she pretty quickly made a pass at Drake – and worse. In turn, Drake had a bad feeling about Anton round about the same time he really started to make a bid to become consort. Inf fact, both Kiara and Anton’s actions toward Drake and Charlotte respectively were almost identical. Otherwise they are very much in tune with each other and agree on most things.

J – Jolly Joker. Drake has a very dry sense of humour and most of his jokes are suggestive and feature double entendres. Charlotte loves Maxwell’s sense of humour even though the young man is very different to her true love. Her jokes are sweet and innocent, she doesn’t like dirty jokes.

K – Kids. They want to wait a little while before they get down to producing an heir – though Drake says ‘practice makes perfect’ so they take the opportunity whenever they can. Drake secretly wants a little girl, a princess to shower with affection. Being an only child, Charlotte wants at least two, if not three, and of course is expected to produce a male heir – though she is fast proving that Queens are just as powerful and effective as a King.

L – Look. Charlotte always looks the part in public, elegant and understated and wears the work of Cordonian designers such as Ana de Luca, but behind the scenes her dress is very informal and practical. When alone in their suite, she loves to walk around in just panties and one of Drake’s denim shirts. Drake thinks the panties are unnecessary. His style has always been casual, but he scrubs up well and is always presentable at official functions. The second he is able, any restricting clothing is taken off as quickly as possible.

M – Media. Having such an important public role, all Charlotte’s online accounts are vetted and composed. The only exception is What’sApp, so she can keep in touch with her friends. Drake can’t understand all the fuss about social media and is pretty much a Luddite when it comes to anything except texting. He’s not even keen on console games – he’d rather be out in the fresh air or doing something practical. He has been known, however, to have a Movie night in with Charlotte and secretly loves romantic films. Westerns and Action movies are his ‘official’ preference.

N – Network. Charlotte is of course very good at making people feel at ease, and is an accomplished diplomat in her own right. She comes across as warm and friendly whilst commanding respect. Drake is still learning how to present himself, and generally stays in the background. He is however very effective on the newly merged Council of Citizens and Nobles, and is passionate about matters that affect the ordinary citizens of Cordonia.

O – Obligations. Charlotte’s life as a young Queen was one of service to her people and she fully expected to have a marriage of convenience. In order to lessen the burden on any of her heirs and to keep pace with modern life, she is slowly handing over more power to the Councils and cutting down on lavish and unnecessary ceremonies, parties, balls and such like. Now Drake is Consort and has a Duchy of his own, he is dismayed at the number of obligations he has accumulated – but he is conscientious and excellent at delegating and nothing is neglected.

P – Pampering. Nothing is too much for Charlotte, Drake sees to her every need, even if that need is only a hug and a foot massage after a hard day in endless meetings, or ordering pizza in his turret room, or making up a hot water bottle when she has period cramps. She wants for nothing in the bedroom and neither does he. He secretly loves manicures and pedicures, and is an excellent masseur. She personally nurses him if he is ever ill – which is rare, so he always thinks he is dying when he has a cold.

Q – Questions. They have no secrets from each other – not one.

R – Routine. They always have breakfast together, and if they happen to be apart, they will set up Skype and set their phones on the table as they eat. If they are together, of course they eat their evening meal together – perhaps not always alone, but at bedtime they close the door to the world and enter their own world.

S – Sensuality. They are totally in tune physically, and fulfil each other’s needs whenever they can. Charlotte has always  had a high sex drive round about the time she is ovulating, and calls on Drake’s services more than normal then, and he is more than happy to oblige. They are well matched as far as libido goes, but they are used to being discreet – most of the time. It’s a good job the walls of the Palace are thick and the rooms large and well spaced out. The guards who stand outside the Royal Suite and some of the maids often hear odd noises but if you were to ask them, their lips are sealed.

T – Together. Some nobles expressed dismay at Charlotte marrying outside the nobility, but together they represent the Queen’s commitment to catering for the needs of all her citizens, noble or common, and the barriers between the two are rapidly breaking down – in a good way.

U – Ups and Downs. Charlotte is fond of roses and spends some time in the gardens supervising their cultivation. Drake’s passion is horses, and he spends much time at the stables. He is very proud of Phoenix’s new foal, sired by Sultan. The only thing that really depresses Charlotte is injustice and poverty, and she is passionate in her attempts to alleviate both. Drake dislikes long stuffy meetings and nobles who think they are better than everyone else. Neville Vancoeur represents pretty  much everything he hates, and he wishes he could award him the role of ambassador to Greece – if only he hadn’t offend the delegates from the word go, he’d have him reside there, so he has to put up with him for now.

V – Vacation. The world is pretty much their oyster, having access to the Royal jet, but Charlotte is conscious not only of the expense of using it, but she is a keen conservationist so short holidays are spent in private in a cabin in the wooded hills of Valtoria unless she is making a State visit and can arrange to stay for a few extra days. They rarely have time for a ‘proper’ holiday anyway so make do with the odd day or long weekend.

W – Wedding. There was of course a small private ceremony in Texas to accommodate Drake’s mother who couldn’t travel to Cordonia for the big state occasion. Both of the happy couple preferred the simple ceremony to the huge public televised event, even when Maxwell, as officiant, tried to arrange karaoke for the reception.

X – Exes. Drake slept his way through the entire court, barring Kiara, and most of the Palace staff too. When he went for therapy after his ordeal at Kiara’s hands, he realised it was all because he couldn’t have Charlotte, the only woman he ever loved. The only other outlet Charlotte ever had was Brad, who showed her his oral skills, and she made an attempt with Anton but couldn’t get past a kiss, as he accidentally called her his sweet princess which was Drake’s pet name for her. That was of course a lucky escape…

Y – Yelling. Drake’s temper is mercurial and he has a hard time reining it in. When he loses it, he loses it. Charlotte can calm him instantly. She is rarely angry, and when she is, it’s well deserved but hers is a quiet rage that reminds Drake of her father.

Z – Zoom. These two go back a long way and met when they were eight years old. They have so many positive memories, and can’t imagine a future without each other.

@ao719 @agent-bossypants @andy-loves-corgis @sleepwalkingelite @boneandfur @blackcatkita @brightpinkpeppercorn @choicescommunity @darley1101 @drakewalkerrosenberg @debramcg1106 @fluffy-marshmallow-heart @goirishsunshine @gardeningourmet @livingthroughchoices @likethetailofacomet @mrs-nazario @mind-reader1 @ooo-barff-ooo @silviasutton1989 @speedyoperarascalparty @zaffrenotes @missevabean @mrsdrakewalkerblog @cora-nova @missameliep @tanelle83 @endlessly-searching-for-you @jlouise88 @drakenazario @tabithacarlisle @furiousherringoperatortoad @notoriouscs @classylady1234 @wickedgypsymoon @carabeth @choices-fangirl @indiana-jr @indiacater @noey718-blog @katedrakeohd @bobasheebaby @annekebbphotography @kennaxval @sirbeepsalot @drakeandcamilleofvaltoria @aworldoffandoms @iplaydrake @drakesensworld @drakewalkerisreal @samcpossum @melodyofgraves

[jerepars]

Ape Dos Mil Extended Chapter Notes

5 / 9 And Darling (This Thing That Breaks My Heart)

Hyperlinks appear in blue (underlined on mobile and the dashboard). The story is posted here. Direct link to this chapter is here.

The universe had it out for her. Teresa was sure of it.

Right off the bat, starting with a call back to the second chapter. See the first paragraph (this one) and the last paragraph of this chapter and compare it to the first and last paragraphs of the second chapter.

Teresa could overlook his omission of the fact. He had a good reason—wanting her to come to the realization on her own, in her own time. James knew how important it was for Teresa to have a choice, to have a say, even when the hands of interference belonged to the universe. Even when James had let his own life be dictated by the bond they only had with each other in the last year.

Although Teresa wasn’t happy James kept the truth from her, she understood. After all, he’d left to protect her, even after she mistrusted him, questioned his loyalty, hurt him. And he found his way back, risked his life to warn her of a threat. Risked everything to make sure she was safe. Teresa understood that. She understood it was something a soulmate would do.

Over the course of season 5, there’s been this really weird and dumb thing happening in canon where it takes Teresa forever to figure stuff out and all her actions are tied to earlier, bad decisions. As if she’s lost all her intuition. Um. What. Power trip or not, Teresa’s ability to think shouldn’t be completely erased. So here, she’s still smart. She figures it out. She understands.

Because on Teresa’s reality train, the one chugging down the mountainside with at least a 200-foot drop below, the state of life outshone the sparkle and shine of being one half of a whole. The timing of the universe was flawed. Teresa had a cartel to run. There were elaborate deals and money laundering schemes she had to make come to fruition if she was going to get so big—through legitimacy—so no one could hurt her.

I’ve had the song “Sparkle and Shine” by David Usher on my writing playlist for this story since I started it. But I could never find the right spot for it. I think I found the place for some of the lyrics in one of the later chapters, but never the title. Until now, I guess.

So she wanted James to stay. He was forward thinking and he knew how to evolve. The road ahead, to legitimacy, Teresa knew it would get uglier. James brought a point of view that wasn’t typical of sicarios and others in the hierarchy of her cartel. His strategy was not only different and efficient, but discreet as well. When Teresa first met James, she’d thought Camila chose James to operate the warehouse because he could motivate—with his appearance and with his prowess. But after everything they’d been through, Teresa understood perfectly James was much more than a Taylor Vaughan, much more than a carrot to dangle in front of mules and sicarios. James had special qualities—intangibles—to go along with his survival instinct. It was why Camila had put James at the top of the food chain and why even the CIA had contracted his services. It was why Teresa knew she should have trusted him.

The mention of Taylor Vaughan and the dangling carrot in this paragraph were first referred to in the first chapter, when Teresa is making her initial impression of James. Her impression of him over time has changed, and that’s a good thing for both of them. In this story (and in canon, too, I’m pretty sure), James has always been able to recognize Teresa’s intangibles. I thought it was important, with time, for her to recognize he has them as well.

Teresa already knew they were going to come up against it; they were going to disagree. She’d long thought James was ill-suited for his job; devastatingly talented at brutality, and all the while conflicted by his integrity and too much heart. When the north star of James’ loyalty became centered on Teresa, he made himself vulnerable to get hurt. The fact that they were soulmates was at least partially related to his loyalty. Would it even matter anymore, would he still hold her in the same regard when he saw her up close, raw and honest, the person she’d become?

Again, we’ve got a reference back to the second chapter, which begins with Teresa thinking James is ill-suited for his job. Also, in the same way I want Teresa to have the ability to think, I believe it’s appropriate for her to have self awareness, to recognize the negative ways the business has changed her.

It was total bullshit and they both knew it. How could she say she wanted him to stay, then cut out both their hearts and say it was just business? It’d never been just business. So James had been right to think about self-preservation, to protect himself from her and her ability to hurt him, like she’d done in the past. He would come to see Phoenix and Manhattan were only the tip of the iceberg. James was someone who’d gotten through to her, seen her up close, no matter how much Teresa tried to maintain her distance. If it would be the same this time around, he was bound to get burned. Pain was so omniscient in Teresa’s life these days it was numbing, and comfort was a luxury even someone as rich as her couldn’t afford.

It probably seems like I was just using an idiom with ‘tip of the iceberg’ but actually I was thinking specifically about “Tip of the Iceberg” by New Found Glory. Lol. The last line in the song is No bone in my body tells me I deserve her. That’s...very James.

The truth was, of course—of course—Teresa wanted to slow down, take a breath, spend time savoring their stars colliding. James had been gone for too long and she’d missed him and she wanted to pick back up where they left off, wanted to keep the burning feeling out of her chest because they were back in each other’s lives and could now be complete.

Since the QOTS writers have insisted “this is not a romance show,” this paragraph above was influenced by Paramore’s “(One of Those) Crazy Girls”  but taken in an entirely different context:

Now when you say you want to slow down Does it mean you want to slow dance? Maybe you want a little extra time To focus on our romance What do you mean I got it backwards? You know we're gonna be forever Why are you telling me goodbye? Aren't you gonna stay the night?

Even when she was hurting him all over again, in New York, saying she wanted him to stay but they couldn’t be together, he knew in her own way she’d been trying to protect him. James had always wanted Teresa to come to the conclusion on her own that they were soulmates. He’d never wanted to insist it upon her or make her feel like she had to take the option the universe earmarked for her. Because James knew, yes, everyone had a soulmate, but soulmates weren’t fated. He knew in his heart of hearts he loved Teresa. That coupled with the fact that they were soulmates meant he chose her, time and time again. But it didn’t mean she’d choose him, especially because he knew how important it was to her to make her own choices.

One more time for chapter 2. In that chapter, it’s said that James knows soulmates aren’t fated. Beyond that, in all of the James parts of the story, he is so sure everyone has a soulmate, and Teresa is his, but he consistently believes that choice is important. I wanted to bring what James thinks about choice and fate back up again to contrast it to Teresa’s interpretation of soulmates. Since she’s just found out about being James’ soulmate, she’s expressed less about what she thinks about the choice and fate when it comes to soulmates. 

In Teresa’s section of this chapter and in the previous chapter, she leans more toward thinking there is fate. She gets to the conclusion that, yes, James is her soulmate and they should be together. But it’s everything else that’s in the way--poor timing, the business, what she still has to accomplish, etc. So she thinks the relationship needs to be put off into the future, into ‘some other life’.

Am I making any sense? Anyway, this is still the weirdest soulmates AU ever. But I like that while Teresa and James have different perspectives on choice and fate, they have no doubt that they are, in fact, soulmates.

And yeah, James had a problem with what she asked him to do, when she made a liar out of him and acted like his humanity was inconsequential. He remembered when it’d been so important to her to prove him wrong; when she held the conviction that he could be saved, that his humanity wasn’t lost, that he, too, had good in him. She’d made a believer out of him. To see her forfeit the fight, for her to look him in the eye and in other words say his integrity and hers were worthless…it broke his heart more than being told they couldn’t be together ever could.

The chapter title is from “And Darling (This Thing That Breaks My Heart)” by Tegan and Sara.

“It’s called going dark for a reason,” James shook his head. “I can’t call you.”

“If something happens, if something goes wrong,” Teresa insisted, “you call. You’re not in this alone.”

In 1x03, in the car at the Savings Club, James gives Teresa a phone and tells her if she notices anything weird (including some dude who walks by twice with his dog, lol), “you call.”

This is a nod to that moment, with the tables slightly reversed.

[samtheflamingomain]

to care is human

Warning: gruesome descriptions of suicide methods.

So last night I tried to kill myself. Sometimes I wake up knowing it'll be that kind of day, sometimes it creeps up on me. This time was different.

I usually drink a shitload, eat a bunch of sleeping pills and then put a bag over my head and a belt around my neck. It's almost worked a few times, but I usually wake up with a hole in the bag and a terrible headache.

I can't really do that anymore; I can tell it's causing actual brain damage, and I also don't have more than a few sleeping pills at any given time because my psychiatrist instructed the pharmacy to give me my meds weekly.

I was alright until around 4 when I realized I'd be drinking and that it would make a solid week in a row of drinking. Add in the fact that I just put $1200 of cat surgery on my credit card, and by the time I was gulping down an entire bottle of wine in an hour, I couldn't stop thinking about all the things that stress me out. I have no money. I hate working. I have no parents. I can’t stop drinking. I have to start working more hours.

I didn't wait long enough after the wine before going to the bar. It was another few beers before it hit me HARD. It takes A LOT for me to feel drunk; I've gotten used to drinking 10 beers to feel tipsy, so I was surprised to be genuinely drunk. Wanting that to continue, I kept at ‘er.

This is a pretty odd story, and I don't remember everything that happened but here's a self-indulgently-long description of it anyway:

I go to the bar after the wine and have about 8 beers (they have a non-standard "mini-pitcher" you can buy, maybe the equivalent of like 3.5 beers?) and I'm talking to another regular who's been trying to get rid of her last kitten for a while. I've always loved this kitten and have considered taking him in for a while now.

So Fran says, "Hey, wanna come over and see him?" and drunk me was like "Fuck yeah, kitties!"

We take a cab to her place, I ogle some felines, then had to walk home. I'm guessing I left her place at around midnight. Why am I guessing? Wellll...

My phone was dead, as I discovered trying to figure out how to get home from her place. I had no idea where I was.

I live at the edge of a very large neighbourhood with a lot of winding, twisting roads. I walked for hours in the freezing cold, crying, stumbling over drunk. I remember laying in grass at some point(s?) and also concrete.

And I remember far too vividly crawling from the sidewalk out to the road and laying down.

I laid there for what felt like hours, screaming at approaching vehicles, "FUCKING KILL ME!" as I bawled my eyes out. None did. Obviously.

I remember distinctly being stood up by a paramedic and escorted into an ambulance. The first thing I said was, "Great, another $40 I can't afford."

I was barely able to give the paramedics answers. I don't remember getting out or how I ended up sleeping on a hospital bed in the mental illness waiting area.

I was woken up at 4 in the morning by a crisis worker. She said "sounds like you had a bad night?" No fuckin shit.

Well, I'm not new to this rodeo. I don't remember much of what was said, but she discharged me as soon as we were done. I have a horrible, infected scrape on my hand that is putting me out of commission at work for at least a week. I can hardly move my hand or lift anything. They tell me to go to a walk-in-clinic.

Buses don't start till 7 on weekends, so I went for my phone to call an Uber. And that’s when I discovered a shitty Android-shaped hole in my pocket.

That's right, for those of you keeping score at home, that's two, count 'em, TWO phones I've lost in the last 4 months! How will he lose the next one??? Vote NOW!!

Anyway, I call a cab from the hospital, get home at around 5, message my coworkers that I can't come in to work, then pass out till 10, the exact time I was supposed to start work. I fire up the ole' Book of Faces and find that the shift has been covered.

I go buy a new phone and (attempt) to go to a clinic for my hand. Literally every clinic in this city is closed because of the stupid long weekend. I was exhausted so I didn't bother going back to the hospital for a scrape.

Then something weird happened. I realized that people actually care. Let me explain.

I fucked up the schedule at work this week by having to take my cat to the vet on Tuesday. I felt HORRIBLE about missing another shift, especially two in one week, and especially because this time it was my own damn fault.

It gets worse. When I was told that the shift had been covered, I wasn't told that it was being covered by Rob, who closed last night (a 4-12 shift). Running on 3 hours of sleep, he came in at 10 and is still there now. He'll be there till 12 again.

So now I feel even more horrible. Dude is working 22 hours in 2 days because of me*.

*Not quite - I'll get to that in a bit.

Without a phone to call my best friend, I felt very lonely when I got home from the hospital. I was still able to talk to my other friend from the States, though, and this is an important difference.

When I try to kill myself and tell Connor after the fact, he rarely reacts. (If I'm on the phone threatening to do it he's much more involved and often talks me down). But with Danny instead, who was extremely worried, I finally felt like someone actually cared after the fact. 

Everyone will care before because death is scary. Few people care after because living is boring.

Danny wasn't the only one. I didn't realize it at the time because I was still a little out of it but when I told my coworker I wouldn't be able to come in, I told her why. I didn't mean to.

She was so understanding about it, told me not to worry, that I could come in for free food if I wanted.

Then, as I began posting on Facebook about my lovely evening, another coworker messaged me - Rob, the one who is a working machine and could probably work 24/7 if necessary. He said he was on a break at Tim Horton's and I should join him.

Kind of worried at this point; I've bailed on 2 shifts in one week, he's got seniority and I singlehandedly* forced him to work a close-to-open-to-close. *Not really. Again, in a minute. Be patient.

To my surprise we just talked, about what happened, about work, about life. At the end of his break he says to come hang out at work.

The concept of "hanging out" coming together with the concept of "work" had never really made much sense to me because I hate working. But I realized that I hate working, not the work itself, not the place and not the people.

So I go to work and... hang out. I try helping when I can but quickly realize my hand is going to be a problem, probably for a very long time. I can't lift much with it and I have a very limited range of motion; it wasn't just due to the scrape, it was also because I'd used it to break a fall. It's not the worst thing, but it does affect nearly every aspect of making pizzas.

Anyway, I shoot the shit with Alycia and Rob and Lily and nobody's mad at me and the store's a mess but it doesn't matter. *And that's when I'm told that 4 people are out of town, and the other morning person wouldn't message back or pick up the phone all day.* It wasn't completely my fault, so I felt a little better.

Then a few things happened.

First, Anthony showed up for his shift at 4. I really like Anthony: he's a hard worker, nice, funny and a little awkward in the same way that I am. Unfortunately, he only works one night a week, and I've only worked with him twice. He talks with Rob as they count the till and I assume Rob's telling him the reason the dough still hasn't been finished at 4pm (me).

Well, he didn't. I take my glove and bandage off my hand to redo it and he goes "Damn, what happened?" I say, "From last night."

"What happened last night?" 

I kind of stare at him for a minute. "Didn't Rob tell you?"

"No, what?"

"I tried to kill myself."

His face falls. I can tell he's starting to wear his awkward face. Many people react differently to this news based on relationship level and experience. When I told Danny, one of my closest friends, he was worried and upset. When I told Anthony, a work acquaintance I barely knew, he had a few moments of awkward "No, hey, that's no good, don't do that" before he suddenly opened his arms for a hug.

I'm a bad hugger. I usually just stand there as the other person does all the hugging. This is because my parents would only ever hug me when they were done yelling at me and had forced me to apologize for something I hadn’t done wrong.

I hugged him back, and I almost started crying. It was the first real hug I'd gotten probably in my entire life. By 'real' I mean for the hugger. He did the socially obligatory thing of pretending suicide isn't as serious as it is before he couldn't keep the charade up. That part of the reaction wasn't real. The hug was real.

Anyway. As Anthony arrives, Alycia leaves. As she's waiting by the door for her ride, she says lots of stuff people say to the suicidal, and also indicates that her boyfriend and herself have had their share of mental illness.

Then she tells me that her second cousin commited suicide. She says he did it because he thought no one would care. "It was sixteen years ago and the family has never been the same. People care. We would all care."

I'd heard it a thousand times before but never really believed it, either because it was being said by someone who probably wouldn't care after a week, or because it's said by someone who is socially obliged to at least pretend to care, so I assume they are just pretending.

But between Danny, a close friend but whom I've never met in person, and my coworkers, who, until now, I wouldn't have called friends at all, I feel like I've "realized" that people really do care.

Something I've never really felt before. Thanks, parents.

Anyway, long story, I know, but a happy-ish ending? Who knows. Still pretty fucking depressed but not suicidal. I don’t know if this will prevent me from trying again, but it might, and that’s better than nothing.

Stay Greater.

[twistednuns]

January 2017

All this sunshine lately. Reading in the beam of warm sunshine on my bed. Taking pretty pictures of translucent things like physalis leaves or a crystal. Admiring how green my eyes are in the right light.

Berlin magic.

Despite all the pain and soreness after being ill: the fact that I do have stomach muscles. Good to know.

A radio interview with the astronaut Samantha Cristoforetti: "From the very beginning, I liked sleeping in weightlessness. Just closing your eyes, floating, sleeping." What a nice thought.

New Year's Day was unexpectedly peaceful and happy. After celebrating with Claudia, Frank and Fabi (we made salad with goat cheese and bacon, pho and raspberry tiramisu; watched Dinner for One, played a drinking game and Activity and Bleigießen - apparently I got a ship which means I'm gonna go on a big trip) I stayed at Frank's place. We discussed space and the different planetory size relations and how insignificant I think we are so I don't like thinking about space. Frank is more optimistic; he thinks the idea that humanity might really matter on an intergalactic level in a few thousand years is so exciting. All this must have been triggered by watching Lars von Trier's Melancholia together. Anyway. In bed, we talked about our ideal picnic spot (somewhere over the rainbow) again, Machu Picchu with Roquefort. And illegal international cheese smuggling. I told him the story of Obi's Swiss colleagues who always bring cheese when they come to work at the observatory in Chile. On the next morning, I found Frank playing with his birthday present on the floor. I made tea and we watched another episode of Westworld. I left the house because his parents were about to come over and treat him to dinner. Got a beautiful brownie and some mezze at the Turkish bakery (I love the fact that they're open on Sundays) and took in the atmosphere. Everything was calm, the sun was shining, it was a bit foggy. So I went to Ruhmeshalle to see the Bavaria statue. There was confetti on the floor and Theresienwiese actually felt like Tempelhofer Feld in Berlin. Weird and beautiful. Apparently I'm not the only one who notices things like that. When I got home I talked to Doris for a while and suggested a spontaneous roadtrip to Frank. Oh, and on my way home I had this glorious but rare feeling, that I am unbelievably blessed. Everything is really really good and all I gotta do is stop wanting more and appreciating what I have. It's strange, the more intelligent and spoilt you are the likelier you are to be unhappy. Not anymore. I'll try to be good to myself. I'm thankful, SO thankful for what I have and how I feel at the moment, even though I don't really know what changed. I used to be SO miserable.

Ashley was happy and excited like a little child because of the large amount of New Year's Eve fireworks in Germany.

My mum sent me a book and a very heartfelt letter this weekend. I loved the textile feeling of the paper she used and read the book right away.

Doris's reaction to the fact that I glued glitter to my face and got some stuck in my eye.

At New Year's Eve, my fortune cookie advised: "It is not enough just to know the way. You also have to get there." Smart cookie.

Visiting Dantebad for the first time, a large outdoor swimming pool. It was freezing cold and started to snow, but I swam some laps nevertheless. There were cute ladies with floral bathing caps, too. And I loved the underwater lights and the steam in the night. Nice view. When I walked to my car, the sidewalk was covered in snow. Quiet and peaceful.

Getting a small piece of Roquefort and graffiti tofu. Eating it slowly at my desk. Always cutting off just a tiny peace and eating it straight from the knife.

The colour of the broccoli against the pale pink plate. Always take note of good colour combinations (like neon pink Sharpie on light blue paper and pistachio green fingernails against the plum coloured sheets).

Pasta with broccoli, a little cream, parmigiano, chili, thyme. Maybe an onion. Heavenly good.

The British property market delivers gems I'd immediately move into. Or rather this one? I don't even want to look at the rest because I'll never be able to afford something like that (nor do I want to, for that matter, but I appreciate great architecture). Related: somehow I ended up on the official website of the Bavarian castle department and found out that you can actually rent a lot of the rooms! If you could only rent the greenhouses in the botanical garden, too... I'd love to get married there one day.

It didn't make me happy but it moved me: a woman wakes up to find the partner next to her dead. 28 years old. She falls apart, obviously. And she writes about it.

Dr.Hauschka's Rose Day Cream. What a blessing for my moisture-depraved winter skin.

Walking through the Nymphenburg castle park and the botanical gardens in the sunshine. The lakes were frozen and everything was covered in snow. Lena and I went to the beautiful café, sitting at a table in front of the window with a view over the historical botanical institute. I got hot chocolate because I love spooning off the molten whipped cream before I drink it. Unfortunately it was already too late for the greenhouses but we are planning on coming back soon to see the tropical butterflies.

Buying an &otherstories nail polish on  sale that has the same colour as my favourite pistachio ice-cream from Ballabeni in Schwabing (the PERFECT ice-cream flavour).

Getting the last table at grano, a tiny Italian pizza place behind the Munich city museum with interesting wall art.

Feeling like a naughty librarian in my Ace&Tate glasses.

It's odd how comforting a simple "there's absolutely nothing in the fridge" dish is. Couscous with tomato puree. Parmigiano, if I have some. A dash of lemon. That's it.

The movie Gnade (2012) with Birgit Minichmayr and Jürgen Vogel. And beautiful Norwegian landscapes.

The little blue suede pouch with rose gold speckles I got for Christmas. I use it as a wallet and whenever I take it out of my bag I notice how much I love the look and feel of it. Very rarely, an object just feels like you, doesn't it?

Cutting open a passion fruit. And the purple carrot dying the boiling water blue.

The ARTE create Let's Swing series.

A weird dream. Leaving Frank's house, taking the bus to a physiotherapist's practice on a busy street. Waiting room, far too many people. After one or two hours we discovered the auditorium next door. At first, there were only pupils from my old schools (and at some point the dream had been one about a school lesson, I suppose). Soon after, people from the waiting room dropped in and I decided to put on a show. I was the host, of course, and stood on stage, speaking into a microphone. I don't even wanna know what I said. But then Inge and Wölki walked up to me and started making out. And *zoom* we're in a French coastal town (?), climbing over ruins in the sea? I don't know how my subconsciousness conjures these things up...

Going to Candy Club party with Doris. I didn't wear a check shirt like all the lesbians but instead bright pink hair. There was a drag show with a dancing pizza, an all-girl band (The Veras) and an interesting hipster duo, Nalan381. I loved some of the DJ's choices, too, like Warpaint, Róisín Murphy, Bonaparte and Electric Six.

#SaltBae

The big snowman my neighbours have built in the garden. Watching the birds peck at the bags of peanuts I hung up in the bushes.

Eating quail eggs for the first time (we got them at the Karstadt supermarket where everything is super pricey but it's so exciting to go through the aisles and look at the unusual items they're selling). The box said they came from "alternative production" so Frank and I were joking about quails with tiny party hats, riding model trains around the pen. Only drinking full moon water and having energy crystals around.

The fact that I really enjoy healthy eating. I usually forget when I eat too much junk food and sweets because the palate is so easily adaptable. But recently I've started preparing salads, soups, chia pudding and lots of fruit and veg again - it's fun and it makes me feel so much better.

Travel Man - 48 Hours in... // A travel guide series with Richard Ayoade!

ProperCorn - tiny popcorn snackpacks; mine came with smooth peanut and almond. Yum.

Also: eating much healthier. Eating less. Eating a ton of veggies and fruit. And feeling so good about it! I even lost a few kilograms already. Is this finally happening?

Going to Residenztheater for the first time to see Arthur Miller's The Crucible. What a great play. Later I found out that the actor who playes John Proctor was also in Toni Erdmann; he played the colleague who attended the naked party after all, I think. I've got two more theatre tickets for the next weeks, I'm really looking forward to it.

Having dinner and watching a movie at the cinema with colleagues and Nicole's brother and father. We got along famously and I actually got her Bernhard's phone number because we are planning on seeing an ice-hockey match together.

Discovering this old back issue of Missy Magazine with a focus on Sleater-Kinney. Why, WHY is it sold out?! Also this photograph. Dressing like Corin is my life goal now. I'm having a fangirl moment.

Reading about feminism. Being overwhelmed by the Women's Marches all over the world on the day after Trump's inauguration. Getting the feeling that standing up for equality is something I'm passionate about. Ashley Judd reciting Nina Donovan's I am a nasty woman was powerful. I hope Trump is going to fuck up big time so people will wake up now and make America actually great again. He's just going to make us stand closer together.

Taking a moment in a club (even though being in a glum mood) to appreciate how great it is to stand in a room full of dancing people, listening to really loud rock music (fun, too, you know - Ballroom Blitz!).

Tiny embroideries.

Deciding on brushing up my French (I'm going to Paris next month!!). Earning more than 1300xp in DuoLingo on a slow Saturday.

Smorfia neapolitana. Crazy Italians. I saw one of these posters in Travel Man and liked the idea a lot.

Nachtbad - they turned an old sauna club in the gay part of the city into a bar, and they even left the showers running. Nice venue.

Hamlet at Munich Kammerspiele. Buckets full of blood and a confetti hose. I loved it.

A healthy dose of cat content. Watching the streetcat Bob movie with Doris and visiting Fricki at home where I got to know Effi the cat. She loved me and sat on my shoulder; even slept like a baby on my arm.

Spending a day in the city instead of going to work (even though I had to attend a workshop). Walking through streets I rarely visit. Getting beautiful and unusual (pumpkin, truffle, rosemary...) macarons at Principessa's and having a chat with the owner. Having dinner at the Victorian House, walking over Viktualienmarkt, stopping at a fruit vendor for some blueberries, getting a necklace at &otherstories and rice papier at the Asian food store.

Outside our classroom we saw a fox running through the snow! I was just as excited about that as the children.

Taking a screen printing class! We were only 4 people and the teacher was really nice so we spent the whole Saturday making prints. I want my own screen now... gotta find out where to get or how to build one! I printed a Sleater-Kinney picture on a tote bag, by the way. "Nasty women!"

The dad in the whole food market who showed his son a monkey toy with a long tail and laughed out loud because it looked like a dick.

Seeing a small piece of rainbow over the street I take every day!

Desire paths.

Making summer rolls with peanut dip. And cooking the same dish Fricki made for me the other day: pumpkin, zucchini, thyme and feta. Delicious.

[caustic-pixie]

How to be an American in 2017

Yesterday a new president went in to office, today a lot of people will march, and tomorrow a lot of people will already be home. The symbolism of solidarity is important; the feeling of connection between millions of strangers, an anonymous harmony of priorities to validate and envelop each individual existence into a common goal - we’re human, we want this, we’ll have it, that’s alright. Maybe you’re going to protest, maybe you aren’t; this one’s about the days after, anyway. This message might feel unkind or upsetting, it may ultimately be exclusionary or  inconsiderate of your current circumstances, but it is not empty of  empathy: I am going to tell you what I believe to be necessary because I believe in you, because this is not a discussion, because the world is not interested in having a discussion with you right now and so you let  go and find another way. It’s no longer the time for justifications, for explaining how or why you can’t/won’t/haven’t, or for trying to police/call out the actions of others while remaining anonymous - because all of these things will be read as excuses. No matter how valid or thoughtful your reasons, right now, nobody in power wants to hear it because nobody in power wants to hear *you*. Protests in mass numbers are great for the moment they are in. You, reading this though, your  greatness will not be measured in your loudness, your greatness will be measured in small actions that start with your self and ripple outward. Here is my advice for you. 1) Get your body looked at by a medical professional. If you have access to free or low-cost health care right now, figure out who you can see as a primary/general doctor. Invest a little cash if you must. Go online to your insurance company (or to your already-known clinic), or get on the phone Monday and ask to make an appointment, and make sure you can get to that appointment. This also includes work for your mouth/teeth, your feet, and your genitals.  Prepare by writing down a list of things you might’ve noticed that have changed, gotten weird, hurt, or are otherwise irritating you about your  body - bring it with you and ask to go over it with the doc before you  leave that appointment. 2) Get your mind in order. Similar to the first one. If your health insurance allows for behavioral health,  psychopharm, therapy, whatever - ask your doctor(s) about it. Or grab your insurance card, look at the website/phone number on the back, and reach out to -them- for help with making these appointments. Take stock of your brains, thoughts, and feelings - decide what’s working  well to keep you safe and functional, be honest about what thoughts or behaviors or triggers or avoidances that are hindering your well-being/productivity, and make a list of what you want to see change in yourself. *Don’t have insurance? Look online for  support groups, free therapy/teaching materials, hotlines, newsletters,  advocacy or local-community orgs. Make at least one call or e-mail a day  asking to connect and explaining why. 3) Take active responsibility for your relationships. Quantify and assign some real definition of quality to the bonds you have in life with friends, family, partners, colleagues - and come to terms about what you have been able to offer them and what they have been able to offer you, both in celebrations and in crisis. Make a short list for yourself of who can be the most helpful to you in case of a real-life/safety/health emergency and how they could help, make a short list of who *you* could be most helpful to in such emergencies and how  you could help. Take a few minutes, over however long is needed, to have a serious talk with each of these people, on each list, to check in on  how both of you feel about the health/quality/expectations of your bond.  Take nothing for granted as just “being there when they/you need it”, take nothing as an assumable fact, take the time to have an explicit conversation about what really is. 4) Pick one cause and pick one way to help further it. Figure out what you can afford to spend: money, physical presence/strength on the ground, interpersonal skills/phone, selling products to raise money, fundraising, art/item donation, etc. Next, figure out how much of whichever resource you feel comfortable setting aside or using, one time per week. Next, decide if you want to work on something where you  live/locally, something state-sized, or something national. Next, pick two to three things you’d like to see be changed in the world. Next, take the topics and the level (local/state/national) that you want to  work on, and toss that all into a search engine. Do some research on  groups that match up reasonably well with your idea. Pick one to reach out to, and offer what you’ve come up with above. 5) Learn about the real humans on the other side and show everyone how to treat others with respect. Be a good sociologist, anthropologist, whatever you have to in order to  accept, tolerate, grieve the truth: There are people whose small actions  - regardless of their race, abilities and/or disabilities, mental illness, age, income, physical location - there are people who might look just like you or those you love, and for their own thoughtful and personally valid reasons they made a series of small choices that contributed to this awful mess because they truly believed it would make things better.  They live in a world every day in which they believe this was important - don’t erase their narratives or their personhood by assigning them all as loud, rich, privileged, ignorant, yuppies or hicks. 6) Take care of your self and have a limit of taking care of others. Make and keep a routine for sleeping when it’s dark out and being awake when  it’s light out, as much as feasible with your work schedule if you have  work. Eat a little bit several times a day. Get up for two or three  minutes every hour and move all your movable limbs around. Keep a cup of  water next to you, sip it regularly, and never let it get empty. Take  your meds on time every day like the instructions say how to. Set alarms  on your phone or computer for these things! Eventually they’ll stop being overwhelming chores and start becoming almost thoughtless habits. Be aware of how others take care of themselves and make sure you’re not spending more time of them than you are on you. 7) Help and be helped. Look  for signs of burnout and discouragement within yourself and others. Be  attentive to acknowledging those signs when they show up, and take a  little break to recharge. Encourage others to do the same when they  notice it in themselves or you notice it in them, and allow others to  point out these things when they see them in you. Cycle through these  steps as appropriate - this is not a linear path, this is all part of  one important routine and can be done in any order you choose. I have no flowery, sweet message to tell you how good you are. You don’t owe me your success. If you feel that the world seeks to devalue, disrespect, dispose of you - take what steps you can to make that harder to do. Put in the work that you can to guard against the worst possible outcomes. Prove to yourself you can do better than you did yesterday.